


The List

by BelleGeorgia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Eventual relationship, Fluff, Jealous John, John is an angry sod, M/M, No Mary, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV John Watson, Pining, Series 1/2 Compliant?, Sexual Content, Sherlock can be an angel, Slow Build, Wee bit of violence, cute af, death of a fish, drug references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2018-10-18 09:46:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10614354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleGeorgia/pseuds/BelleGeorgia
Summary: On John's computer, there is a file. And in that file is a word document. And in that word document is a list. A list that John admittedly reads more than he updates, but one he is very fond of nonetheless.Or rather: John keeps a list of all the times Sherlock isn't being a dick.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there!
> 
> I had this story slowly building up on my phone notes and thought 'hey why not post it' so this is what I am doing.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: I have awful, dirty, smelly grammar-if anything catches your eye feel free to let me know or just turn a blind eye, whatever floats your boat. 
> 
> Enjoy! xo

On John's computer, there is a file. And in that file is a word document. And in that word document is a list. A list that John admittedly reads more than he updates, but one he is very fond of nonetheless. Whether Sherlock knows about the list, John doesn't know as he has never mentioned it. But considering his flatmate's temperament of being a nosey little bastard, John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock has the list memorised.

The list contains a series of words and/or short sentences that wouldn't make sense to anyone but himself and probably Sherlock. The thing is, in the many months John has been living with Sherlock Holmes he has come to realise that the man in question has a strange, and very occasional, _sweet side_. And as there is no way John is going to risk his life by writing these rare moments in his blog, he has made a list instead which he looks at when Sherlock has particularly ticked him off. Mainly as a reminder that Sherlock is, in fact, a human being and would be seen as such in court if John murdered him in his sleep.

Even so, John is very fond of the list and sometimes looks back on it just because he can and because it makes him smile.

This time, however, John has opened the file with hands shaking in rage and aggressively types in his password, praying for Sherlock’s sake that it works and the bastard hasn't changed it again. He hasn't. John stares at his computer as his home-screen loads, trying to get his breathing under control. He twitches as he hears Sherlock’s bedroom door slamming down the hall and glares in that direction.

"Damn bloody childish, inconsiderate..." John's angry muttering trails off into incoherent nonsense as he quickly skims through his files.

They had very recently come back from a crime scene, in which Sherlock had proceeded to execute his routine of yelling aggressively at a victim in order to make them speak quickly. John is rather used to this, but it still makes him shake his head in disapproval or snap Sherlock’s name in warning. This time, however, it was a very old lady whose deaf husband had been found dead with multiple stab wounds in their bathroom.

She had only found his body an hour ago and was still trembling from shock, and with her white curls and denim dungarees covered in soil, she had really _really_ reminded John of his own late grandmother. So once Sherlock grabbed her thin shoulders and proceeded to yell into her stricken, tear streaked face, John had lost it. He had marched towards Sherlock, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and proceeded to forcibly drag him away while the man himself spluttered in indignation. As they passed Lestrade, the silver haired man had muttered; "Not on Sherlock. Keep a tighter leash on him will you John? Maybe a muzzle too."

When they had got home, the row had been spectacular. Sherlock screaming that he _'wasn't a fucking dog!'_ and John screaming that he _‘shouldn’t bloody well act like an animal then!'_ and so on and so forth until Sherlock had thrown an empty glass in Johns general direction and stormed away into the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the hinges creaked.

John stabs at the keys roughly as the file pops up on his screen. Trying to control his breathing, John skims through the document, trying to find something that he hadn't read in a while as those seem to have the highest success rates in calm him down after a fight with Sherlock. John assumes this is because he can trick himself into believing he has almost forgotten the memory and the small pang of pleasant surprise is a welcome relief to the blinding rage.

As John skims, he comes across a bullet point he genuinely had actually forgotten about and almost, _almost_ , smiles.

 

  * Dennis The Fish



 

"Dennis!"

John jumped at the sudden proclaim that pierced through the silence. They had been on a case somewhere in Devon, something about a priceless jewel and a vengeful uncle. As was his luck, the only room available to them in the little town had one double bed, which they shared the first night before Sherlock got really into the case and stopped sleeping altogether.

"What?"

He felt Sherlock roll over to face his turned back.

"The fish," said Sherlock, as if that were obvious.

John let out a low groan and reluctantly rolled over to face him. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock blinked at John from within a cocoon of blankets. "The fish. Dennis."

"What fish?" John yawned.

"In the kitchen."

John raised his eyebrows and purses his lips. He really wanted to be asleep right now.

"On top of the microwave," Sherlock explained impatiently.

John frowned, vaguely remembering seeing a, what he had thought empty, fish bowl indeed on top of the microwave before they had left that morning but had actively disregarded it. "There was a fish in that?" He backtracked. "You called it Dennis?"

Sherlock huffed. "No. The owner called him Dennis."

"Why do you have someone else's fish?" John narrowed his eyes at him.

"Well I couldn't very well just leave him there." The blanket cocoon shifted with what John guessed was a shrug.

John felt like he had missed a large chunk of the conversation. His face must have shown this as Sherlock let out an all-suffering sigh and rolled onto his back, pulling his arms free from the many layers of wool and gesturing at the ceiling as he spoke. "His owner was a murderer. You know, the builder...baker...banker? I don't know, the one who killed his wife. He was sentenced to life, remember? There was no one to look after him," he glanced back at John.

John recalled the case from the week before. It had been short, only lasting a couple of days, and he couldn't remember ever going to the victim/murderer's house. "So you took it?"

"Yes."

John stared. "You have really strange priorities."

"I never told Mrs Hudson to feed him," Sherlock said miserably, staring up into the darkness.

John’s lips twitched. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

Sherlock rolled back onto his side to face him. "No, he has to eat three times a day John. I did research," he said petulantly.

"Well what do you expect me to do about it? We're in Devon. And Mrs Hudson is at her sister's anyway."

"Nothing. I was just telling you." Sherlock yawned and slid is hand under his cheek, closing his eyes.

There was a pause where John simply watched him. "Right," he said eventually. John rolled over, giving Sherlock his back and closed his own eyes, done with the conversation and desperate for sleep knowing full well he wouldn't be getting any easy shut-eye until the case was over.

"You always get funny when you come home and there are dead things in the kitchen," Sherlock muttered sleepily.

"For fuck's sake."

 

Dennis The Fish was, unsurprisingly, deceased when they arrived home four days later. They held a little funeral for him in the bathroom and then Sherlock proceeded to sulk in silence on the sofa for the rest of the day. He later blamed his mood on the fact he had lost his watch in the lake he had dived into when retrieving the family's jewelled heirloom, but John had noticed Sherlock staring at the empty fishbowl on the unit miserably when he thought John couldn't see him. John smiled sympathetically and then put the empty bowl in the back of the cupboard under the sink when Sherlock wasn't looking.

 

* * *

 

 

John realises that he has lost, and is in fact smiling slightly. He forces himself to scowl and closes his laptop with a lot less force than he had opened it with. It's a complicated emotion, wanting to stay angry at someone but also actively trying to smother it. Suddenly tired, John sighs and stretches, thinking longingly of his bed. Just as he moves to stand, he hears a creak behind him and spins around, startled. His racing heart slows as he watches Sherlock pad more into the room, eyes on his bare feet and looking a bit miserable.

"I don't want to fight with you, John." He mutters.

There's a pause as John watches Sherlock and Sherlock watches the floor. "I don't want to fight with you either." John replies quietly, his anger having completely disappeared watching Sherlock mumble his odd version of an apology.

Sherlock's eyes come up and rest on John's face, flickering across it. He offers a small smile that is more a grimace than anything. John huffs out a tired laugh and rubs his eyes.

"You're a bloody pain in the arse, you know that?"

Sherlock nods.

Smiling, John walks up to him and pats him on the shoulder. "Goodnight Sherlock." John moves around him and makes his way up the stairs, hearing Sherlock mutter a goodnight back.

Once John is settled in bed he hears Sherlock's bedroom door closing, soft and gentle in the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who left kudo's and commented! Angels!
> 
> Again: Beware smelly, foul grammar.
> 
> Enjoy! xo

John can’t sleep. Even _Sherlock_ is asleep. John wonders if that’s why he can’t doze off, because he can’t hear the usual crashing and bashing coming from his housemate in his room below. Their fight earlier had drained John to exhaustion and he had expected to have gone out like a light once in bed. But no.

Debating whether or not to simply give up and go downstairs to watch telly, John fumbles for his phone on his bedside table. The bright backlight makes him wince as he hastily dims it. Nothing. No new messages, no new emails. Although it would be silly to assume there would be anything considering it was about half two in the morning. Sighing, John slips out of bed and tiptoes down the stairs, not wanting to wake Sherlock who really doesn’t sleep enough as it is.

Once in the living room, John sits back at his laptop with the intent of making a start on a new blog entry about the case of the stabbed old man. Even though, _technically,_ they haven’t yet solved it what with the fight and all the glass throwing and what not.

John’s List file is still up on the screen from where he had looked at it earlier and has a quick skim. One bullet point in particular makes him bark out an involuntary laugh before cringing in embarrassment.

 

  * The Flu



Working part time at the surgery means John is forever in contact with all manner of germs and illnesses, and because of that he has himself quite a strong immune system and very rarely gets sick. Sherlock is much the same, to Johns dismay, considering the man hardly eats or sleeps or generally looks after his health in any way.

However, about once a year, Johns body seems to just give up and he will come down with the most horrendous case of flu. Usually, he can anticipate or even predict when this bout of illness will strike and will pop out to the nearest co-op to stock up on supplies such as soup, tissues, cough medicine, paracetamol and a hot water bottle to cuddle. He then takes it all home and waits for the demons to strike and spends the next week in bed alternating between looking after himself like the good doctor he is and feeling terribly sorry for himself.

The next strike John didn't anticipate at all. Too busy chasing Sherlock around London and just generally not paying attention to much else, he woke up on a Sunday morning feeling, quite literally, like death. Blocked nose, pounding headache, aching limbs, hot flushes, the whole shebang. Sitting up made his head spin and he miserably crawled out of bed. John stopped on the landing. Staring down the stairs with a gut full of dread. They were moving. The stairs were definitely moving. Deciding the best and safest option was probably descending them of his arse like a toddler, John did just that.

Sherlock was in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, watching Jeremy Kyle with an intense expression when John shuffled in. They had finished a two week case the day before and were supposed to be rewarding themselves with a day of doing sweet nothing.

John collapsed next to Sherlock on the sofa and huddled into the corner, shivering.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, eyes not leaving the screen.

"Sitting down?" John croaked.

"Why are you making that noise?"

"What noise?"

"She definitely stole the money, just look at her hair! Are you ill?" Sherlock said rapidly, eyes finally coming to rest on Johns face. His eyebrows furrowed and he leaned in suddenly close.

"Don't!" John exclaimed tiredly, leaning away, "You'll catch it if you get too close."

Sherlock ignored him and reached out to grab Johns face between his large hands, eyes narrowed and flitting quickly across his face. John sighed slightly and let himself be manhandled, too tired to do otherwise.

"John..." Sherlock breathed, "...you look awful." With that diagnosis he let his friends face go and sat back again.

"Yeah, thanks for that. I feel awful," John grumbled. He let himself sit for a moment, feeling out the ache in his legs before hefting himself up off of the sofa. Just as John was standing upright, a warm hand enclosed around his wrist and tugged him back down onto the cushions. John landed with a huff and blinked into Sherlock’s very blue, and very close, eyes owlishly.

“What on earth do you think you are doing?” Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely offended.

“Making tea?” John whispered.

Sherlock gave an annoyed exhale over John’s face and swept grandly up onto his feet.

“John, do not be silly. I will make you some tea!” He exclaimed mightily, gliding out into the kitchen.

“My knight in shining armour.” John muttered, slumping against the cushions.

When Sherlock returned five minutes later, he had a very intense, very _suspicious_ expression on his face as he passed John a mug.

“What’s in it?” John asked outright, too ill and tired to play any games.

Sherlock frowned. “Tea.”

“And?”

Sherlock stared at John for a second. His eyes darted to the left before coming back to rest on John’s face with a furrowed brow. “Milk?”

“Yes, and?” John snapped, annoyance causing a hot flush to rise up and engulf his body.  

Sherlock’s face melted into his most pompous, impassive look. “I don’t know what you want from me, John.”

“The truth!” John didn’t really understand why he was now shouting, but he knew it must be important.

Sherlock blinked at the tone. “John-“

“-No Sherlock!” John interrupted, “I am sick and tired being your lab rat!” John was suddenly standing, and _swaying_ , but he believed he was making a good point and should continue thus, “I am sick and tired of being poisoned by _you!”_

Sherlock stood up also, his arms slightly outstretched towards John as if to catch something. John wondered if the cat on the ceiling was losing its balance.

“John, just calm down-“

“Stop telling me to calm down!” John screeched, stumbling away from his housemates arms and trying to ignore how his shivering had evolved into full-on trembling. “You’re trying to kill me, the cat is about to fall down and I am sick of all this _drama_!”

Sherlock stopped trying to move towards John’s retreating form, blinking up at the ceiling momentarily as John gestured angrily up at the black and white cat.

“Ah.” Sherlock muttered in some sort of understanding. John imitated him snappishly.

“John, you are experiencing hallucinations due to a rather severe fever. You ought to go back to bed,” Sherlock stated calmly and clearly. John was not impressed.  

“Oh do I now? So you can try and _poison_ me again?” John spat out, trying to circle around Sherlock in an intimidating manor. However, that put him right underneath the cat on the ceiling and John didn’t want the scrawny thing to land on his head so he stepped smartly away. 

“John, stop moving and listen to me.” Sherlock snapped.

“Stop shouting at me!” John yelled at his potential murderer.

“I’m not shouting, you’re shouting!” Sherlock shouted.

“I am sick and tired of your-“John was cut off his very important accusation as Sherlock swiftly jumped forward and grabbed his face. His palms were cool and were a welcome relief to John’s flushed skin.

“Yes, exactly,” Sherlock said quietly, “You are sick and tired. Literally. You need to rest.”

John blinked up at the so very blue sky. “You’re pretty.” John felt much more content, knowing that the sky now knew how pretty it was. The sky blinked, and shifted to the floor before darting back at John.

“Come on.” The sky moved away from John’s sight, and the next thing he knew he was tucked up in bed shivering madly. John opened his eyes at a squint and saw Sherlock watching him from where he was seated on the bed’s edge.

“Alright?” Sherlock whispered.

John tried to answer but his throat was unhelpfully made of sandpaper. Sherlock reached over to the bedside table, dumping what looked like a damp flannel on the wood before bringing a glass of cool water to John’s dry lips.

“Just a sip.” Sherlock muttered, unusually sombre, and took the glass away before John could gulp its entire contents.

“Hush, its fine. Go back to sleep.” Sherlock’s deep voice lulled him back into darkness just as John felt the cool flannel press gently back onto his forehead.

 

When John awoke next, the sun was pouring into his room through the windows and he had pretty much forgotten everything that had happened the night before. He sighed and rolled over in bed, feeling not _terrible_ but also not great. John shifted in surprise as he nearly cracked his skull onto a dark curled head. Sherlock was sat upright against the bed on the floor, legs spread out around him. He was also dead asleep.  John smiled weakly as he spotted a wet flannel gripped in Sherlock’s right hand.

“Sherlock,” John called quietly, “Sherlock.” He reached out a hand and shook his friend’s shoulder gently. Sherlock mumbled something before blinking glazed eyes open part-way.

John sat up, ignoring a wave of dizziness before reaching out and hooking his arms under Sherlock’s.

“Come on.”

John all but dragged the still-mostly asleep Sherlock up onto his bed. Once horizontal, Sherlock twitched about to get comfortable before he began snoring lightly again. John watched his slack, peaceful face and reached down to pull the cold flannel out of Sherlock’s sleeping grasp. Once that had gone, Sherlock immediately rolled over onto his side and slid his hand under his cheek. John huffed a tiny tired laugh, ignoring the fact that his friend’s sleeping position was familiar enough to him to be expected now. John also ignored the fact that as his fever had mostly gone, he could not blame it when his hand came up and gently brushed Sherlock’s curls away from his forehead as his own eyes began to droop.   

 

* * *

 

 

“What are you laughing at?” A sleepy voice asks behind John and he jumps in surprise.

Turning around, John gets a strong sense of déjà vu as he stares at Sherlock’s ruffled form, the light from his bedroom illuminating him from behind like an angel. John closes his laptop with one hand, ignoring the way Sherlock’s eyes follow the movement, and stands up to stretch.

“Just remembering the time I had that awful flu. Sorry if I woke you.”

Sherlock waves this off, “Which time?” John is fairly certain ‘that awful flu’ situation only happened the once while living with Sherlock but he decides not to comment.

“When I thought you were trying to poison me.”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock nods, “Understandable really.”

John huffs a laugh before pausing. He narrows his eyes in suspicion as his friend pads into the kitchen. John follows and leans against the unit, watching Sherlock as he fills up the kettle.

“Why is that ‘understandable really’?” John asks, folding his arms across his chest.

Sherlock’s shoulders shrug as he puts the now-full kettle back where it belongs and switches it on. “Because I did put something in your tea.” He explains calmly, reaching for a mug.

“ _What?_ ”

“Tea?” Sherlock holds up a mug in John’s direction.

“No! What do you mean you put something in my tea?”

Sherlock looks down at the empty mug innocently, “Nothing, I thought you didn’t want tea?”

“ _Sherlock_...” John growls in warning.

Sherlock gives John an impish grin and places the mug back down, leaning on the unit and mirroring John’s stance opposite him. “Calm down John, I’m only teasing.”

John feels his eye twitch. “So you _didn’t_ slip anything into my drink?”

“You make it sounds so sordid. I put some _cough syrup_ into a nice cup of _tea_ that _I made_ for you, so that you could _get better.”_ Sherlock explains slowly, taking the milk out of the fridge.

“I’m glad I woke you up.” John grumbles childishly. Sherlock smirks over his shoulder, “I wasn’t asleep.”

John rolls his eyes and makes his way to the door, “I have a date tomorrow, please don’t blow up the place.”

Sherlock nods distractedly as he pours milk into his mug.

“And remember to put the milk away.”

“Goodnight John.” Sherlock dismisses, not looking at his friend.

John shakes his head and climbs the stairs back to his room. This time, he falls straight to sleep as soon as his head touches the pillow.

 

The milk is still on the unit and definitely inconsumable when John goes down in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times can you write the word 'tea' before it starts to look odd? This many. 
> 
> Next chapter should be up super soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who expressed an interest in this! 
> 
> Enjoy! xo

The slam of the front door of 221b causes the whole flat to tremble in protest, but John pays it no mind as he stomps up the stairs into the flat, ignoring Mrs Hudson's yell of _'stop slamming the door Sherlock!'._

John sheds his coat and throws it in the direction of the coat stand once inside and makes a beeline for his laptop which (isn't where he left it) is on the kitchen table. He roughly opens it and punches on the power button, scowling.

Incredibly, today it isn't Sherlock who has infuriated him enough to drive him to the familiar file on the screen. He craves some sort of comfort but John isn't the type of man to go up to someone and ask them for a hug so this is the next best thing. Plus, if he did try and hug someone right now, he'd quite possibly seriously damage their ribs.

"She broke up with you."

John jumps in surprise and glares back at Sherlock who is standing in the doorway. How is the man always sneaking up on him? Sherlock doesn't need an answer and John isn't going to give him one. He slams his laptop shut and gets up, stomping to the fridge.

"What happened?" Sherlock asks, watching him neutrally.

"She broke up with me." John deadpans, eyes sweeping the contents before grabbing the last bottle of beer.

"Obvious, but what did she say?"

"Does it matter?" John snaps, aggressively searching a draw for a bottle opener before one is suddenly thrust under his nose. "Thanks."

Sherlock steps away, glances at the laptop then back at John as he leans against the table watching John open the bottle and downing half its contents.

"I suppose not. But maybe it would be good to..." He trails off, grimacing slightly, "...talk about it?"

John glares at him. "Stop it."

Sherlock looks surprised. "Stop what?"

"Let's just leave it yeah? I'm not-not now." John let's out a huff of air and tries his hardest not to slam his beer down on the counter next to him.

"Well maybe it's for the be-"

John spins around suddenly. "Shut up. You don't get to say anything. You don't care so just leave it."

Sherlock stares at John in silence, face impassive.

John leans heavily on the counter behind him, breathing hard and fiercely trying not to feel guilty for snapping at his friend. After all, it's not Sherlock’s fault Rachel broke it off. It's not Sherlock’s fault she found her 'soulmate' who happened to be a young artist called Jed and who most definitely _wasn't_ _John_. For once, it really, one hundred percent, wasn't Sherlock’s fault John got dumped by _another_ girlfriend. But rejection is painful, especially when said rejection has a sprinkling of replacement to a newer, younger, better-looking model.

John bows his head, trying to control his breathing. He reaches blindly behind him for the beer bottle but comes in contact with a smooth, warm hand instead. Snapping his head up he realises Sherlock has taken the bottle away and is emptying its contents down the sink.

"What the hell are you doing!?" John shouts. He watches in disbelief as Sherlock drops the now empty bottle into the bin. John can't believe it. His housemate really _is_ suicidal. He takes a step towards Sherlock and the taller man steps in to mirror him.

"You don't need that," he declares calmly.

"Oh don't I? What do you think you're playing at? I need a drink-"

"No you don't."

"Sherlock, I swear to god," John takes another step towards his flat mate and this time Sherlock doesn't move. He stares down at John, eyes flickering over his face, reading the anger, the hurt, the betrayal. Seemingly finding what he's looking for, he hums and nods once before grabbing John by the elbow and steering him towards the living room.

"What the hell are you doing!?" John asks for a second time, his anger increasing by the second at the manhandling.

"Get your coat." Sherlock orders, grabbing his own and throwing it on with a flourish before opening the front door. He stands there, watching John expectantly. When John makes no move to comply he raises his eyebrows.

"Trust me."

John doesn't, but he picks up his coat from the floor anyway.

Once they're in a taxi, Sherlock muttering an address to the driver so quietly John can't hear, he begins to worry if Sherlock is planning to take him back to Rachel's and egg her house or something equally childish. Not that he would mind to be honest, but Lestrade might have something to say about it later.

"Where are we going Sherlock?" John asks the detective for the fourth time since their journey began. He thinks longingly of the wasted beer down the sink and makes a mental note to buy some more on his way back from whatever hell Sherlock is dragging him into this time.

And for the fourth time Sherlock answers with a cryptic, "You'll see."

John scowls at him, hating himself that even in his anger he would still blindingly follow Sherlock just because the man told him to.

When Sherlock doesn't turn his head to acknowledge the glare, John inflicts the heat onto the window instead, trying to piece together where they are heading. He's both relieved and a bit disappointed to note they are heading in the opposite direction to Rachel's house.

They turn down into a street that once would have been full of suburban houses, but now contains what John can only describe as a building site. Some houses are still standing but in terrible condition, broken windows, paint flaking off, overgrown gardens. Some are simply piles of brick and concrete. Outside one of the houses is a large wrecking ball, quite obviously recently used. The taxi slows to a stop and John shoots Sherlock a questioning look as the man pays the driver.

"Come on." Sherlock mutters, hopping out of the car.

John follows Sherlock down the street for a few yards before he turns and heads down the front path of one of the still-standing houses. As he reaches a long hand out to push open the broken front door, John snags his wrist.

"Sherlock, what are we doing here?"

Sherlock turns towards him. "I told you, you'll see."

"This can't be safe." John protests, gesturing vaguely at the wrecking ball a few houses down.

"Don't worry, they're finished for the day. Won't be back until morning." With that, Sherlock eases his wrist out of Johns grasp and opens the door, stepping inside.

John follows cautiously, glancing around in surprise. The house is surprisingly still full of furniture, a table and lamp in the hallway, sofas and a TV in the living room. Pictures have been taken down off the walls but a few remain of scenery and the odd cheap painting. There are glasses and plates on a dining table, as if someone was setting it for dinner but then left suddenly.

"What is this place? Is it for a case?" John asks, stepping on dusty floorboards that look like carpet was aggressively wrenched from its grasp going by the scrapes and scuffs.

"It was. Burst pipe, flooded all the houses on this street, everyone had to be evacuated. The house owner’s son did it. Boring." Sherlock picks up a wine glass and inspects it in the light.

John notices now the water damage on the wooden floor and the furniture. Mostly everything in there is unsalvageable, no wonder it was left behind.

"Where are they now?"

"I don't know. The council relocated them I assume. The son got community service." Suddenly Sherlock throws the wine glass to the ground, watching it smash in satisfaction.

"Jesus! Why the hell did you do that?" John cries, jumping back in surprise.

In answer, Sherlock picks up another glass, this time handing it to John.

"No-"

"John, this place is going to be smashed down tomorrow regardless, there's no point crying over its unwanted interior." Sherlock points out.

John looks down at the glass in his hand. "But what's the point?"

Sherlock sighs dramatically and gives John a look. "Haven't you ever wanted to smash up an entire house before with absolutely no consequences? And I don't know, maybe it'll make you feel better."

John stares at his mad, insane, genius, occasionally caring friend for a moment before giving a grin and throwing the glass at the wall opposite.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later finds them sprawled on the floor panting, backs resting against a wall and surrounded by broken glass, china and wood. John grins as he looks around at the disaster around them. "That was honestly, the most fun I think I've ever had."

Sherlock nods next to him, "I particularly enjoyed smashing up the TV with that big plank of wood."

John lets out a bit of a hysterical laugh and leans his head back on the wall as he gets his breath back. He feels Sherlock shift next to him and glances over at his friend. Sherlock has his head tilted back also, his eyes closed and a small smile on his lips. There is a small but fairly deep cut on his cheekbone that John hadn't noticed before, an injury no doubt created by a flying piece of glass. Without thinking, John reaches up and swipes gently at the gathering blood with his thumb. Sherlock twitches slightly at the touch but otherwise doesn't move… until he mutters a second later, "I'm sure you're trying to help, but your sweat mingled with the dust has produced a rather intense sting."

John blinks, "Shit, sorry." Then starts chuckling. He watches as Sherlock’s lips twitch and soon both of them are roaring with laughter on the debris covered floor. Through his laughter, John watches Sherlock. His blue eyes are bright with tears and his rare but genuine smile is huge and only for him and John thinks; _God, I am so lucky_.

By the time they get home, the beer is forgotten. Rachel is forgotten. And John makes his way over to his laptop with the intent of typing up a new bullet point.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and interest! My ego is enjoying it immensely.
> 
> Enjoy! xo

 

  * Tesco



One of the most surreal moments of John's life was when he and Sherlock had to go undercover in Tesco. As sales assistants. For three weeks.

Seeing Sherlock in a uniform, serving customers and stocking shelves wasn't something John could possibly ever get used to. Or Lestrade, who would come in everyday under the pretext of buying a Meal Deal and wait at the end of an aisle until Sherlock was on till so he would have to serve the inspector.

A man's body had been found dumped in the freezer out back near the manager’s office, left neatly propped up next to the frozen veg and chicken breasts, along with an hour of blank footage from the CCTV cameras that had obviously been deleted. So the manager had called Sherlock and a day later John found himself wearing a uniform with the name tag 'Pete' adorning his left pectoral and a badge reading _'Look under 25? Don't be offended if we ask for ID'_ under it.

The manager had suspected one of his employees, as no one else had access to the freezer and CCTV, and so John and Sherlock had gone in there to find out anything they could. Lestrade had been a bit reluctant to let them, seeing as every time they went undercover something went wrong. But Sherlock had twisted his arm and the DI had allowed them three weeks top and after that they were to give up.

John was rather surprised at how easily Sherlock picked up the work, considering the man is allergic to any sort of manual labour that isn't chasing down a suspect. Well, at first anyway. The first day, John was left to work on the tills and Sherlock was to stock the shelves. Sherlock was perfect at it, uncomplaining, helpful and charming to customers who asked where this or that were kept. John was a bit proud, to be honest.

The second day, however, Sherlock got bored. He began stocking the bread by the crisps, and the energy drinks by the ice cream, and it was then that John realised that Sherlock had taken up the childish habit of purposefully doing a chore so spectacularly wrong so that he would never be asked to do it again. He did the same thing at home.  And so, Sherlock was placed on the till and John was left to stock.

Much like with the former task, Sherlock at first put every effort into performing his role perfectly. The old ladies loved him, the building site workers thought he was hilarious, young women and men batted their lashes at him as he smiled charmingly while asking if they needed a bag. And then, much like with the former task, Sherlock got bored and seemed to adopt trying to deliberately wind up the customers. Every time John looked over at his friend, he was asking an old man for ID, or holding up a ten pound note up to the light with suspicious eyes while a teenager squirmed in front of a growing queue.

In the end, Sherlock was banned from the shop floor and was made to work stock out back, which is where John found him a week into their case, sitting on the floor scrolling through his phone.

“You do know there is CCTV back here right?” John asked, stepping around his friend to grab a box of sweets.

“So? It’s not as if the manager is going to fire me, is he.” Sherlock muttered, eyes still down on his phone.

“Any progress?” John asked quietly, after glancing around for any eyes or ears.

Sherlock stood up, brushing dirt off his backside and pocketing his phone. “I’m fairly certain it-“ He stopped suddenly and grabbed John, shoving him further into the stock room and pushed him between two large cages full of delivery. John was about to protest when he heard footsteps enter the back room, the person lifting something heavy from a shelf then disappearing again.

John turned his head and glowered at his friend, who was stood pressed up against the box full of sweets John was still holding between their bodies and scowling at it.

“What was the point of that? We are actually supposed to be here, you know!” John snapped, the cage digging into his back uncomfortably.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet John’s and he shrugged, “I like creating suspense.”

“You like being dramatic.” John retorted. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and before John could react, the younger man slapped the sweet box down out of John’s grip and it fell to the floor with a bang.

John stared at Sherlock. “You know you just proved my point.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, although his lips were twitching slightly. “You wanted to know my progress?” He asked, kicking the box away.

John nodded for him to continue, ignoring the fact that neither of them had made any move to escape the cramped space they were in. Without the box between them, Sherlock’s thighs brushed against John’s, and he ignored that too.

“As I was saying, I’m fairly certain that it was Joel,” Sherlock explained quietly.

“I knew that already.” John complained, thinking of the young and shifty sales assistant who had only worked with them a couple of times that week.

“Well, let me finish!” Sherlock breathed angrily.

“Go on then!”

“Turns out, the young sullen man had recently broken up with his boyfriend.”

“So?” John asked, shifting uncomfortably and causing his knee to bash with Sherlock’s.

“His name is Luke Ford, and he’s been missing for two weeks. And the man in the freezer was a car salesman by the name if Christopher Ford.”

“His father!?” John gasped.

“Uncle.” Sherlock corrected smugly.

“How the hell has no one made that connection?” John demanded, unconvinced the police could be so dense.

“Because no one knew of their relationship. Both parents are strict Catholics, and spend a lot of their time explaining how homosexuals are currently burning in hell on Facebook.”

“Lovely.” John drawled.

“Indeed,” Sherlock nodded, “My guess is-“

“-Uncle Chris found out, threatened to tell their parents and Joel…” John trailed off, raising his hand and swinging it like a bat, making a popping sound with his mouth like he had connected with something.

“Exactly.” Sherlock grinned. John smiled up at him for a moment before frowning.

“So, where’s the ex?”

“No idea,” Sherlock shifted to his other leg, causing his face to inch closer to Johns. “But let’s find out.” He gave a bit of a manic smile down at John, before suddenly leaning in. John’s heart froze along with his body and before he could register what was happening, Sherlock was sliding out of the cramped space, his body brushing forcefully against John’s, before making his way to the door.

Sherlock looked back in question when John didn’t follow. “Coming?”

John blinked and willed his body to move, sliding between the cages and rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Yeah, I’m coming.” He muttered, following the detective back onto the shop floor, not really understanding why he felt a bit disappointed and also a bit weary.

 

They never did get to investigate where Luke Ford was, because the next day Sherlock punched a customer in the face.

John was serving a growing queue of people, Sherlock was hiding out back somewhere probably on his phone, and a purple faced man in a suit was shouting.

“Listen to me, moron, these potatoes were green when I bought them and I want a damn refund!”

John gritted his teeth and forced himself calm. “Sir, you bought them in the reduced section. They were 20p, because they were green. I’m afraid-“

“For fucks sake! I didn’t want to buy green fucking potatoes!” The man screeched. A child started crying and John was seriously losing his patience.

“They were _20p_! I’m sorry but I’m not allowed to give you a refund on reduced items!”

The man stepped closer to the till, trying to lean over it intimidatingly. “Can you not understand me? Are you so slow that I have to spell it out for your stupid little brain? I. Want. A-“

He never did get to spell out exactly what he wanted because the next moment, he was on the floor and blood was pouring from his nose. John stared at Sherlock in shock, not having seen him approach. Sherlock was standing there with such a blank look of innocence that if John hadn’t just watched him do so, he wouldn’t be sure it was Sherlock who punched the man at all. There was silence. Even the child had stopped crying.

“He said he can’t give you a refund. Have a nice day.” Sherlock drawled, his eyes narrowing on the man still sat stunned on the floor.

Then there was chaos.

 

A few hours later, after having Lestrade scream at them that they were hereby forever banned from going undercover again, and Sherlock muttering ‘We’ll see how long that lasts’ which resulted in more furious screaming, the two friends finally got home.

John fell down on the sofa, exhausted and Sherlock slumped down next to him and tilted his head back, closing his eyes.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” John muttered tiredly but inwardly pleased.

“Just repaying the favour.” Sherlock replied, smiling slightly as they both recalled when John punched that hideous inspector in the face after arresting Sherlock and calling him names.

“God, we are a pair.” John chuckled.

“Mm.” Sherlock grinned.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while before John let out a yawn and heaved himself up off the sofa. He looked down at Sherlock with a frown.

“What about Luke Ford? And Joel?”

Sherlock shrugged, eyes still closed. “I told Lestrade what I knew once he had stopped his caterwauling. He can sort it out.”

“Not like you to give up a case so easily.” John remarked. Sherlock shrugged again, “It’s solved.” John smiled at his friend fondly, then gave into an impulse and reached down and ruffled his curls. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.

“Goodnight.” John murmured, before heading towards the stairs.

“Goodnight, John.”

 

* * *

 

 

 John smiles down at Sherlock’s sleeping form on the couch, remembering coming down in the morning after the Tesco incident and finding Sherlock asleep in the exact place and position he is in now.

It is nearly ten in the morning, and they have things to do, but John ignores that as he takes a throw from Sherlock’s armchair and drapes it over his friend. He can sleep for a little while longer, John thinks, heading to the kitchen. He only gets as far as the table when a furious pounding starts on the front door. John jumps in surprise and glances at Sherlock as the man jerks awake and falls off the sofa onto the floor in a tangled heap. John rushes for the door and flies down the stairs before Mrs Hudson can be assaulted with whoever is aggressively trying to knock their door down.

John throws the door open and stares in surprise. A tall man with curly blonde hair matted on one side with blood, wearing a ripped suit and a wild expression stands panting on their door mat.

“John! Thank god!”

“Teddy!?”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This potato scenario genuinely happened to me once at work. Without the swearing, and punching.


	5. Chapter 5

 

As John steps into 221B, he hears a dull thumping sound coming from the flat. He narrows his eyes as he makes his way up the steps, thinking either Sherlock has got himself into some sort of trouble or is destroying the flat again. Either way, he hurries his steps, ready to jump in and defuse any situation he is presented with. However, once he gets closer to the door he hears a grunt followed by a muffled, "Harder. _Harder_!"

John stumbles to a stop. Then hears a shout, "Sherlock!"

John’s heart falters and he grips the banister hard as another round of, "Harder, Jesus, go harder!" is heard through the wood.

"This is the hardest I can go!"

John recognises his old friend’s voice and a sudden fury surges out of nowhere and John sprints up the rest of the steps, kicking open the door to a much loader exclamation of, "Put your back into it man!"

John follows the heavy grunts and thumping into the kitchen, "What the hell are you-" he stops. And stares. "-doing."

"Oh, hi John!" Sherlock spins round to greet him with a grin, next to him Teddy stands with a bloodied knife and a sheepish expression on his blood splattered face.

"Sherlock was just showing me the most effective way to stab someone."

John moves around them to spot a bloodied slab of some animal or other. "Was he."

"It's all about getting through the bone, John." Sherlock explains, prodding the dead pig with a finger as Teddy places the knife gently back on the table.

"Yeah. I gathered." John mutters. His heart rate is slowing and irritation is replacing the panic and rage. "Why...?"

"It's also a surprisingly effective stress relief." Teddy shrugs, throwing a look at Sherlock that John can only describe as _fond_.

"Sure. If you love stabbing pig carcasses." John snaps, irritation peaking as his brain throws him a picture of what other stress relief he was imagining occurring between them moments before.

"He does." Sherlock replies haughtily, either not noticing or ignoring John's mood.

"I do," Teddy shrugs again. "Apparently." He glances down at the pig carcass with a mildly nauseated look.

"Well that's wonderful. Now everyone is suitably de-stressed, let's clear up the blood and guts yeah?" John spins away and shoves off his coat, chucking it at the hooks behind the door blindly.

"Yes sir!" Teddy exclaims cheerfully.

John notices slow movement in the corner of his eye. "Sherlock that means you too."

"Ugh."

John is shoving his keys into the inner pocket of his bag when Teddy slides up next to him. "Sorry about the mess mate, I didn't really know what I had got myself into until I was elbow deep in pig intestine."

"Not a sentence you hear every day."

Teddy laughs incredulously, "Really? Even living with Sherlock?"

John has to accede that was probably a fair point and just shrugs in reply with a look of resignation that makes the man chuckle again. John glances around, notices the cups of tea left abandoned on the unit and two thoughts pop into his head. The first being; _Sherlock made you tea?_ And the second; _What the hell are you doing here?_ What comes out of his mouth though is a polite, "So when did you pop round?"

"About an hour ago, Sherlock explained you were at work. Then he said he needed a second opinion on something and... voilà." Teddy gestures at the mess Sherlock is half-heartedly trying to clean up with a tea towel in one hand, while the other is texting rapidly on his phone.

 

Teddy has taken it upon himself to ‘pop round’ every day since his surprise visit three days prior. John had let the man stand shaking on their doorstep for thirty surprised seconds before ushering him inside. John had then shoved the incoherent man into his arm chair and pushed a hot cup of tea into his trembling hands. Sherlock, sulking from the rude awakening had sat scowling at Teddy on the sofa, wrapped tightly in the blanket John had draped over him not five minutes before. John sat in Sherlock’s chair and Teddy began explaining how he had just been attacked a few streets away, jumped in an alley by a couple of thugs who had stolen his wallet, phone and watch.

“It was my fathers.” He had muttered miserably.

John had winced in sympathy, remember how the man in question had passed suddenly five years ago due to an undiagnosed tumour in the brain. Teddy had been extremely close to him.

Teddy went on to express his appreciation at John living so near and letting him sit in for a while.

“Don’t be silly, it’s no bother. I’m just glad you weren’t too hurt. How’s the head?” John asked, looking at the dried blood on his temple in concern.

Teddy shook off his concern, explaining how it was only superficial. John had gone and taken a proper look at it regardless.

The two blondes had met at university and were close enough, both living in the same dorm, and had kept in touch in a relaxed email-every-few-months-or-so kind of way. Teddy was studying psychology at the time, but was now working in business if John remembered correctly. He was a kind man, happy-go-lucky and always up for a drink and a laugh. John hadn’t got along with all of his other housemates, someone was always falling out with someone else, but Teddy and he had always been a strong unit.

“Do you want me to call the police?” John had asked.

“No, I mean…I don’t know…” Teddy stuttered, “I didn’t see their faces, I don’t know how much help I would be.”

Sherlock had shifted at this and murmured, “How did you know there was two of them?”

Teddy had startled, apparently having not noticed Sherlock’s huddled motionless form as a person when he had arrived. It was possible he had overlooked the bundle as a pile of pillows. He had stared at Sherlock for a moment, only his curly mop of hair and bright eyes were peeking out over the blanket.

“Erm, I don’t know…I could just tell? Two pairs of hands, two voices...” Teddy had trailed off, still staring at Sherlock as if not quite understanding what he was looking at.

“What did they sound like?”

“Uh, gruff? Common,” Teddy stopped, brown eyes squinting, “No wait, one had an accent. Polish I think.”

“Did he smell of antiseptic?”

Teddy frowned, glancing at John for a second before shaking his head, “No.”

Sherlock had nodded in some sort of confirmation, then had looked down at his knees where John was sure his phone was resting in the blankets, apparently done with the conversation.

Teddy had looked at John in question.

“This is Sherlock,” John explained, “My housemate. Sherlock, Teddy-“

“-Knowles,” Sherlock interrupted, eyes still down, “You went to university together, studied psychology but didn’t pursue it once you graduated. Married once, no children. It only lasted a year. Probably because of your closeted homosexuality…“

“Sherlock!” John snapped in warning.

“…you’re back in London for a business conference, but you find it boring which is why you decided to leave early and go for a stroll. Resulting in your mugging and thus, ending up here.”

John groaned and placed a hand over his eyes. Suddenly a burst of shocked laughter had filled the air and John looked up in surprise. Teddy was still chuckling, his dark eyes wide and fixed on Sherlock before turning them in disbelief onto John. “ _What?”_ He had exclaimed in incredulity. He turned back to Sherlock still smiling, “How!? How on earth did you know all that?”

Sherlock’s eyes slid down to his lap again and said in a monotone voice, “I fucking hate conferences, why is this old fart explaining to me the many uses of pie charts? Think anyone will notice if I leave?”

John had stared at his friend, wondering he had officially gone mad when Teddy had laughed again, this time in delight. Sherlock gave a small smug smile and produced his hidden hand, his phone in it and Teddy’s Facebook page on the screen.

“Quick mover. You work for the FBI?” Teddy had joked.

“Sometimes.” Sherlock had answered, eyes back on his phone.

Teddy had smiled again in incredulity and looked at John a bit pointedly before turning his eyes almost immediately back on Sherlock. He had chuckled lowly again shaking his head a bit.

 After that, Teddy turns up every day, always with a bag of takeaway and beer. John doesn’t mind, he enjoys his friends company and they spend the majority of the time catching up while Sherlock hides in his room or sprawls on the sofa with his laptop.

Teddy seems to have taken a shine to the detective, asking him about his work and sending him compliments every two minutes, varying from his intelligence to his looks. Sherlock usually ignores remarks like these from other people, but with Teddy he smiles charmingly, visibly enjoying the praise and allowing Teddy to continue.

John frowns slightly as he watches his old friend make his way around the table and gently takes the bloody tea towel from Sherlock’s hand with a small smile and chucks the ruined thing into the washing machine. He comes back with the kitchen roll and mutters something close to Sherlock’s ear. The detective slides his phone into his pocket and rolls his eyes in response, snatching the kitchen roll away from the blonde. Teddy murmurs a laugh and goes to snatch it back, but Sherlock pulls it away before he can reach it with a smug smile. Teddy reaches for it again and this time manages to grab the roll with a laugh and breaks off a few squares, handing them to Sherlock, his eyes twinkling. Sherlock rolls his eyes again but it’s accompanied with a lopsided smile, and his eyes suddenly dart to John’s in a quick glance.

Suddenly feeling like he is intruding on something, John turns away and makes his way into the living room, collapsing on the sofa with a sigh. He purposefully doesn’t look towards the kitchen where he can hear another of Teddy’s deep chuckles and turns on the TV.  

Teddy treats Sherlock a bit like one would a child, humouring and gentle, as if Sherlock is something precious or delicate. To be honest, John finds it all rather condescending. Although, maybe that isn’t fair. Sherlock usually looks deeper into everything everyone ever says to him, as if expecting to find a subtle insult. Which means if there is an insult hidden beneath surgery words, he will always pick up on it. He doesn’t with Teddy, so John forces himself to admit that maybe he’s just hearing what he wants to hear. Why he wants to hear Teddy insulting Sherlock, he isn’t entirely sure. As that is a bit mental. It isn’t so much wanting Teddy to _hurt_ his friend, but rather that Sherlock would stop preening under his gaze and smiling his ‘John’ smile at someone else.

John sinks lower into the seat, flicking through the channels absently. He isn’t stupid, he’s well aware how all this sounds. Sometimes, he allows himself a moment or two to really contemplate his exact feelings for Sherlock, and other times (the majority) he swats them aside like a wayward fly. But watching Sherlock… _flirt_ , or rather _flirt back,_ with his old friend is doing something awful to John’s insides.

Suddenly, a hand snatches the remote out of his and the sofa dips as a body settles next to him. John frowns at Sherlock, who is now flicking through the channels at lightning speed.

“I thought you were cleaning the kitchen?” John asks, a bit harsher than intended.

Sherlock sends him a quick side-look before returning his eyes back on the screen. “Teddy can do it quicker without me being in the way.”

“You two do seem to manage to distract each other a fair bit.” John agrees in a mumble, crossing his arms. He knows he’s being childish. He doesn’t care.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything in response to this, not admitting nor denying the accusation. He pauses on a channel and chucks the remote onto the coffee table, settling back into the cushions.

John hears a small clatter of something in the kitchen and suddenly feels angry. “For god’s sake Sherlock, you can’t just make Teddy clean up all your shit!” John snaps, leaning forward on the sofa to properly look at his housemate.

Sherlock turns his head towards him, face impassive. This angers John even more for some reason.

“I honestly don’t understand how you can be so damn rude sometimes, my god how were you raised? Had everyone waiting on you hand and foot, did you?” Sherlock is beginning to frown a bit but John isn’t done, can’t seem to stop, “You can’t just go through life taking advantage of everyone and giving nothing back in return! Teddy is my friend, and I will not have you screwing him about just to get what you want! Grow up!” John manages to stop himself before he shouts anything more insane, but the damage is done. Sherlock stares at him for a second and opens his mouth to speak. John braces himself but then Sherlock closes it a moment later and, giving John a cold look, shoves himself up off the sofa and storms his way into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

John closes his eyes at the noise and groans. What the fuck is wrong with him? That was completely uncalled for. The anger is draining fast. John isn’t even sure where it had all come from in the first place. There is silence in the kitchen.

A second later, Sherlock’s door is roughly pulled open again and John snaps his head up. Sherlock doesn’t even look his way as he stomps determinedly into the kitchen, grabs a frozen and staring Teddy by the wrist and drags him back into his room, door slamming once again.

John stares at the closed door with wide eyes. _What the fuck!?_ He belatedly realises he is standing, and not knowing what to do he takes one step towards Sherlock’s door. He stops. What exactly is he going to do, burst in and demand Teddy leave? _Throw him off Sherlock? Pry their lips apart_ …Oh God. John forces himself to step back and sinks slowly back onto the sofa, eyes still on the closed door.

Why does John care anyway? Sherlock is a grown man, he can take care of himself. He can do whatever the hell he wants. It’s none of John’s business. They two curly haired men obviously like each other. Even if they’ve only known each other three days. Even if _Sherlock doesn’t do this._

John forces his eyes away from the door. They land on the TV, left on the channel Sherlock had chosen. It’s an old James Bond film, one of John’s favourites. Sherlock hadn’t liked it yet here it was, playing on the screen in front of John.

“Shit.” John murmurs to himself, rubbing his hands over his face. He stands, switches off the TV and slowly makes his way to the stairs, needing to lay down. Needing to leave this room.

Just as he reaches the stairs, Sherlock’s door opens again, this time much softer. John almost doesn’t look back, not really wanting to see the evidence of something he’d rather not think about, but a voice calls his name.

John glances at Teddy with dread. Teddy looks much the same, not dishevelled and out of breath, but looking distinctly happier than he did before he went into Sherlock’s room. John sighs and heads back towards the living room, where Teddy is heading. He sits next to his friend, suddenly miserable and very tired.

“You alright?” Teddy asks in concern.

John nods with a strained smile. He wants to ask what happened in Sherlock’s room, but also really doesn’t want to at the same time. In the end, he doesn’t need to. Teddy gives a bright grin and lifts up his wrist to John’s face, allowing something shining to catch the light. John stares.

“Your dad’s watch?”

“Yep!” Teddy nods enthusiastically, holding the silver up to his eyes and inspecting it with a large smile, “Sherlock got it back for me!”

“How!?” John asks, flabbergasted. “Why?” he adds without thinking.   

“Said he thought he knew of the assailants and had a hunch where they were squatting. He snuck in at night and stole it back. Couldn’t find my phone or wallet but those are replaceable. As for why,” He pauses and gives John an amused look and John lowers his eyes in embarrassment, “I don’t know. He’s a good person and his best friend’s friend got mugged? Honestly, I don’t know why he didn’t just go to the police if he knew where they were and get them to find the watch but…” He trails off with a shrug and smiles down at his watch again.

“He likes the dramatics.” John explains quietly, eyes on Sherlock’s door.

Teddy looks up. “Hm, I think he just likes doing things his own way.”

John can’t disagree with that and smiles a bit at his friend. He frowns suddenly. “He did call the police though?”

Teddy chuckles, “Yeah, they’ve got the two goons. Apparently they’ve been up to all sorts of trouble, and will definitely be going down regardless of my case. They want me to go in tomorrow to identify them, though.”

John nods, relieved.

“Well, I better be off,” Teddy moves to stand before pausing. He glances at Sherlock’s door then back at John. “Mate,” he smiles a bit sadly, “open your eyes.” He then gives John a pointed look and makes his way up and towards his coat which is hanging off the back of John’s chair. John watches him with glazed eyes, mind elsewhere and heart thudding.

Teddy stops by the front door, “I’ll pop round after I’ve been to the station tomorrow if that’s okay? Just to say goodbye. I’ll be heading back home in the afternoon.”

John shakes himself and stands. “Of course. Sherlock will be pleased to see you once more before you go.”

Teddy gives him a strange look. He takes a breath as if to say something but then lets the air flow out of his mouth in a hard exhale. “See you tomorrow, mate.” He gives John a raised eyebrow and leaves with a soft click of the door.

John half expects Sherlock to emerge from his room once he hears the front door close, as he is accustomed to do when visitors he has spent the day avoiding finally leave. The door stays firmly shut, however, and John hovers outside it for a moment. He knows he should apologise, but something makes him turn away.

John slowly makes his way up to his bedroom, feeling defeated. He lays on his bed, and wonders at Sherlock going out of his way to find Teddy’s watch. It was nice of him. John hopes selfishly that that’s all it was. As his eyes close in exhaustion, John debates adding the Teddy situation to his list, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit darker than the others, small warning, but things should lighten up again soon enough.
> 
> I struggled a bit with this one, so please let me know what you think!
> 
> Enjoy! xo

John can't sleep. He keeps replaying what he said to Sherlock earlier. He should have apologised.  _Never go to sleep on an argument._ Not that it was an argument, really, John realises. Sherlock hadn’t said a thing. The man usually has no qualms against standing up for himself, whether or not he is in the right. Sherlock has just as much as a temper as John does, and it comes out the most when he is being attacked. John has been the subject of said anger, many times. But John has also noticed that when Sherlock is most definitely in the wrong, those are the times the man will vehemently defend himself. He hates admitting when he’s wrong. So it only makes sense that when he has actually done _nothing_ wrong, he would stay silent. John almost wishes he had snapped back something nasty in return, so that he would stop feeling so guilty. Sherlock had seemed genuinely surprised at John’s accusation, before his eyes had turned to ice.

After Teddy had left, John had emerged from his room an hour later. Sherlock had been in the living room, curled up in his chair and reading a book. He hadn’t acknowledge the doctor. It had been tense, both following each other’s movements in the corner of their eyes but not saying a word. John had made tea, placing a mug next to the brunette, a silent peace offering. Sherlock didn’t touch it, left it to go cold. In the end, he had retreated into his room, and the chance of reconciliation had passed.

John sighs and rolls over onto his back. He hears movement in the bedroom below him.

Acting on impulse, John slips out of bed and trots quietly downstairs. It’s dark, all the lights are off and there is now silence behind Sherlock’s door. John pauses, at a loss. Now he is here, he has no idea how to proceed. He raises his hand to knock on the door and stops just before his hand makes contact with the solid wood. What is he doing? It’s nearly 2am. What if Sherlock was simply rolling over in bed, fast asleep? John would be even more of a dick if he went and woke the man up simply to satisfy his own sense of guilt. His raised fist uncurls and John rests his hand gently on the cool wood.

Suddenly the door opens and John stumbles backwards in alarm. Sherlock stands there, rumbled in his pyjamas and wide eyed.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," John answers quickly. He winces at the too-fast response and tries again. "I thought I heard you moving around..."

Sherlock continues to stare at him. John waits for him to say something. He doesn't.

“Were you asleep?” John stalls. Sherlock simply shakes his head, face blank.

John heaves a sigh, glances at the floor before meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. "I guess I wanted to apologise for earlier."

"Oh, when you accused me of taking advantage of a good friend of yours who was recently attacked?" Sherlock asks, his voice causal but eyes cold.

John takes on a defensive air, "Yes. That."

Sherlock nods once, then moves to close the door in John's face. John catches it before he can do so, and roughly pushes it open again.

"I'm trying to apologise here!" He snaps.

"You just did." Sherlock growls, trying to close the door again.

John shoves it back open and forces himself into Sherlock's room so he can't shut him out.

"Get out." Sherlock demands instantly, his voice low.

"No, let me speak!" John slams the door closed behind him, shutting out the light. Its dark now, dim light from a lamp post outside is filtering through the curtains, making Sherlock's eyes glow angrily. John knows he's pushing it, and tries to create a calm air about him. He doesn't know why Sherlock makes him so angry, why he makes _Sherlock_ so angry. He tries again.

"Sherlock, listen. What I said, it wasn't fair. I know you weren't trying to be a dick. I shouldn't have shouted at you. I don't know why I got so..." he trails off with a sigh.

Sherlock isn't budging, his eyes still narrowed and his hands are clenched by his sides. God, why is he making this so hard? It was such a stupid, petty argument. It didn't even mean anything. They've had worst fights, much worse, but this seems to have really hit something within the detective. John doesn't know what to do. He's said what he came to say, now he's stuck in Sherlock's dark room with the man looking unforgiving in front of him.

"I know you got Teddy's watch back," he attempts a different approach, "That was really great of you. It meant a lot to him."

"I know. He expressed that,” Sherlock pauses before a nasty smile tilts his lips. “He was really...grateful." Sherlock says slowly, raising an eyebrow.

John scowls. What is he trying to do? John knows nothing happened between them, so why is Sherlock trying to hint that something did? Unless...no, he’s not getting into that now.

"Good."

"Great."

John huffs out an irritated gush of air.

"Why are you so angry with me?" John snaps, frowning at his friend.

Sherlock scoffs and reaches behind John to grab the door handle. "Goodnight John."

John grabs his wrist, stopping him from opening the door. Sherlock's eyes snap up to his and narrow dangerously.

"Let go."

"Not until you tell me why you're so angry!"

"Why? Can't you just go and read your little list? That makes it all better usually, doesn't it?" Sherlock sneers viciously.

John blinks. They had never spoken about the list before. John always assumed Sherlock knew of it, but to have it thrown in his face suddenly takes him by surprise. Is that why Sherlock is so angry? He doesn't approve of the list?

"Is this what this is all about?" John asks, irritated, "You don't like to be reminded that you're human?"

"I don't like being reminded that _you_ need to be reminded!" Sherlock shouts, trying to yank his wrist out of John's grasp. John tightens his hold automatically, surprised.

"What?"

"Let go of me!" Sherlock cries again, furious now. He yanks his wrist away and this time John let's him go. He doesn't reach for the door again, though, and he retreats back a few steps.

John stares at his friend. Sherlock is breathing harshly and glaring at the floor.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock snaps his eyes up at John then, his eyes fiery. John holds his breath. "Or does it make you feel better, knowing someone else is even worse of a person than you are?" Sherlock's voice has gone quiet. John stares at him, can't look away. "Does it make you feel superior, getting to look down at someone for once? Not having to feel so pathetic about your own miserable life, when you can judge someone else who's so obviously _inferior_ to you?" Sherlock steps forward as he speaks, his voice hypnotising John who steps back against the door.

"That's not what it's about..." John breathes.

"Oh?" Sherlock steps forward again, now in John's space. He waits for the final blow. "Maybe you're right," Sherlock’s tone lightens. John frowns, confused. "Maybe it’s just a distraction from your lonely, loveless life. Just like your sister’s is a bottle.” 

John sees red and the next thing he knows, Sherlock's head has snapped to the side from a sharp shot to his cheek.

John didn't hit him that hard, Sherlock didn't even stumble, but the intent was clear. John wanted to hurt him. And he did.

They stand there, panting, eyes boring fiercely into each other. John wants to grab at him, shake him, to hit him again. He wants Sherlock to hit him back. He wants….

A second passes and suddenly they both surge forward. Their lips crash together painfully, hands clenching and unclenching into clothes. John grabs Sherlock by the front of his shirt and spins him around, slamming him into the wall next to the door.

Their hands grope frantically, tugging up shirts and grasping at flesh. They writhe against each other and John grabs Sherlock's hair, tugging his head back and exposing his long neck. He follows the movement with his head, biting down on the soft flesh and leaving hot wet marks on his skin. Sherlock pants above him, gripping John's waist hard before wrenching his head down and capturing his lips again. John bites at his lips instead, sliding a leg between the taller man's and he hears Sherlock gasp, his long hands sliding up John's back.

When John captures his wrists and pins them to the wall, Sherlock lets out a small whine and John almost collapses at the sound. He grinds up against Sherlock, hard and aching and Sherlock arches his back off the wall.

Their tongues slide together furiously, and John has never felt anything so damn erotic in his life. He loosens his hands on Sherlock's wrists when the detective snaps his hips forward without warning and Sherlock's hands land on his chest. He grips the material hard, his face turning to follow John's as he changes the position of their heated kiss. John’s mind is blank, his body reacting to a primal need he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

Sherlock's hands slide down to John's stomach as John's creep down the wall, reaching under Sherlock and grabbing is arse, roughly tugging him forward. The friction is intense, and they pant into each other's mouths. Sherlock's hands slide back up to John's chest and pause there before adding pressure. John growls low in his throat, pushing himself further into the body pinned against the wall, utterly undone. The pressure coming from Sherlock's hands increases and it takes John one second longer to realise the man is trying to push him away.

John wrenches himself away, stumbling backwards with a sharp intake of air.

"Oh god. I'm so sorry." John gasps.

"No, it's fine." Sherlock pants wildly, his voice pitched higher than usual and his eyes staring at a fixated spot behind John's head.

The realisation of what just happened hits John like a train and he stares at his friend in terror. Fuck.

John makes the sentiment clear out loud with a strangled, "Fuck."

Sherlock's eyes slide to meet his then he quickly looks away again.

"Erm," John backs up another step, at a complete loss.

"John," Sherlock starts, his breath still coming out in harsh gulps but John doesn't wait around to hear what he has to say and bolts from the room, slamming the door open and sprinting up the stairs into his room.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, John wakes up late having slept like the dead. He stretches with a pleased moan. Then freezes. Memories of the night before come flooding into his mind and his heart starts beating frantically. The argument, hitting Sherlock. Kissing Sherlock. Oh god.

John groans and covers his head with his arms. John has fantasised about kissing Sherlock before and it was always sweet and gentle, soft declarations and small smiles. Not the aggressive, desperate lunging that had actually happened. John was surprised at his behaviour, at how quickly his anger had turned into something else entirely. But the thing that surprises him the most was Sherlock’s reciprocation before he had pushed him away. _He pushed me away._ Did he scare him? Was it too much? John feels a pang of guilt and closes his eyes. He had pinned Sherlock to a wall and had attacked him. Firstly with his fist, then his mouth. John feels terrible.

Knowing he can’t stay and mope in bed all day, John climbs out of the sheets and hurriedly gets dressed. He needs to talk to Sherlock. Needs to make sure he’s okay.

This proves difficult, in the end, as Sherlock doesn’t emerge from his room all morning. John paces around the flat nervously, making tea, absently watching the news, opening his laptop and closing it again before he can turn it on. Multiple times, John has the urge to read the list but with Sherlock’s words from last night, he feels like it would be wrong somehow. His eyes keep flicking to Sherlock’s door, but he doesn’t allow himself to go anywhere near it. Images of him shoving himself into the room keep ploughing through his mind and John knows it would be unwise of him to try and enter the space again. Sherlock’s room has always been the man’s safe haven, a place where he can escape the real world and be at ease. And John had ruined that last night.

Just after two pm, there is a knock at the door. John, desperate for a distraction from the turmoil in his mind nearly runs in his haste to open it. Teddy is standing there, a big smile on his handsome face.

“Hey!” He frowns suddenly. “Are you okay?”

John offers a forced smile instantly. “Yeah, course. Come in.”

Teddy follows him into the kitchen and sits at the table, now blood-free thanks to him.

“How was the station?” John asks, filling up the kettle and getting some mugs down. He pauses before reaching for a third. He doubts Sherlock will come out of his room, but he wants to make him some tea anyway, just in case.

“Good yeah, didn’t take too long. The bastards have a trial in three weeks, I have to come back to prosecute but that’s fine.” Teddy is flicking through his phone as he speaks, a habit that reminds John of his hiding friend, but keeps glancing up and John in concern.

“Good, good.” John replies absently, pouring boiling water into the mugs.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Teddy asks, glancing around as if the man is going to emerge into view.

John almost spills the water. Teddy frowns again.

“In his room.” John says nothing more.

There is companionable silence as John finishes making the tea and Teddy waits until he is seated opposite before asking, “Mate, are you sure you’re okay? You seem…” He trails off, waving a vague hand in John’s direction, face drawn together.

“Yeah. I mean…I guess. I don’t know?” John sighs and rubs his face in his hands before glancing at the door. He turns back to his friend and lowers his voice. “Something happened.”

Teddy’s eyes light up and a small mischievous smirk graces his lips. “Oh?”

“No, it’s not…” John doesn’t know where to begin. If he should even say anything at all. He can’t deny the thought of confiding in someone is appealing, however, and Teddy is egging him on with his eyes.  

John opens his mouth to begin but is interrupted.

“Afternoon.”

John snaps his head up, eyes wide. Sherlock is standing by the kitchen door, dressed immaculately in his usual suit and shirt combo. His eyes are resting on Teddy, unwavering.

“Sherlock! The man of the hour!” Teddy grins and rises from his chair, advancing on the man with wide arms. Just as he gets close enough to touch the detective, he stops. “What happened to your cheek?” Sherlock frowns in confusion before comprehension passes over his face and his eyes flick instantly to John’s before snapping back to the blonde man in front of him. The movement is so quick, but Teddy notices it. John winces, noticing the dark smudge on his friend’s cheekbone. Teddy spins around, looking at John with wide eyes. There is silence. A moment passes and when John lowers his eyes in shame, Teddy’s darken.

“What did you do?”

John is about to speak but Sherlock beats him to it. “I fell in the shower this morning. It’s nothing.”

John glances up in surprise. He doesn’t deserve the lie, and from the dark look in Sherlock’s eyes he knows the sentiment is shared.

Teddy looks unconvinced but before he can express this, Sherlock moves past him towards the kettle. John tries to ignore the fact that he walks around the other side of the table, away from him.

“I already made you a cup.” John says, pointing at the tea on the unit.

Sherlock doesn’t even glance in his direction. “I want coffee.”

John clenches his jaw and looks down at his hands gripping his mug. Teddy slowly walks back to the table, sensing the tension, and sits. He give John a pointed look, eyes narrowed but John doesn’t meet it.

“When is the trial?” Sherlock asks Teddy as he goes about making his coffee.

Teddy gives him a gentle smile. “Three weeks. I’m not really needed to be honest, what with them already having so many convictions, but better to be sure, eh?”

“Of course,” Sherlock nods, “So, you’ll be back here before you know it.” He gives Teddy a bright smile.

Teddy grins. “Yep! I’ll have to pop round! If that’s alright with you, of course.” It’s more of a statement than a question but Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to answer anyway.

“You’re always welcome.” They smile at each other and John suddenly feels quite invisible.

“I wanted to thank you again,” Teddy starts, “Without you those thugs wouldn’t be getting what they deserve. And I wouldn’t have my dad’s watch back.” He glances at his wrist, eyes shining in gratitude.

Sherlock waves this off, adding sugar to his coffee before leaning his back against the unit. He makes no move to join them at the table.

“Must extend my gratitude towards those thugs too, of course,” Teddy smirks, “Otherwise I would never have met _you_!”

Sherlock lets out a mock gasp. “A loss too painful to bare thinking about!” he replies playfully, eyes sparkling. Teddy chuckles.

John places his mug down on the table none-too-gently and the noise startles both men as if just noticing John’s presence. “We’ve enjoyed having you Teddy, pig intestines aside.” John smiles.

Sherlock shoots him a venomous look that startles John. He hadn’t meant the comment as a dig, but Sherlock seems to have taken it as such regardless.

“Ah, let’s never speak of that again eh?” Teddy chuckles, ignoring the dark atmosphere. He glances at his watch. “On that note, I must be off. Trains to catch, people to see etcetera, etcetera.”  

Teddy rises and moves towards the brunet, grasping him by the shoulders and giving him a strong embrace. Sherlock pats his back a bit awkwardly in return before Teddy draws back slightly. He mutters something in Sherlock’s ear and the detective smiles slightly, nodding in reply. Then Teddy cups the side of his neck in a gentle hold and kisses his cheek, lips resting on the bruise for a moment before pulling back. John doesn’t know if the gesture was deliberate or not, but he has to swallow hard anyway, turning his eyes downward once again. Teddy pats Sherlock on the shoulder once before turning away. He looks at John expectantly before heading into the living room. John glances at Sherlock but the man has already turned away, fiddling with his phone. He follows Teddy to the door.   

“Well, it’s been nice seeing-“ Teddy whirls around suddenly, cutting John off with a dark look.

“I don’t know what happened last night, but you need to make it right.” His voice is low and angry. “I understand Sherlock can be difficult, but whatever he did, he didn’t deserve that.” He indicates to his own cheek and John grimaces.

“You don’t understand…”

“No, _you_ don’t understand!” Teddy snaps viciously. He sends a quick glance towards the kitchen door before continuing quietly, “Sherlock cares about you a lot. I know I haven’t known him very long but it’s clear as day.”

John doesn’t say anything but Teddy must have read something in his face because he rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a fool. He didn’t get my watch back for me and me alone, he did it for you. Don’t fuck this up. You have a hell of a lot of grovelling to do.”

John exhales slowly, nodding. He knows this. “Everything is so fucked. I don’t know what to do.” John confides tiredly. Teddy is unwavering.

“An apology is a start.”

“I tried that last night!” John exclaims, frustrated. He stops and tries to lower his voice again. “But he was already so angry with me then and now…” John scrubs a hand over his face.

Teddy’s eyes soften a bit. “You’ve got to try, mate.”

John looks at his friend, lips pursed. “We kissed.” He blurts.

Teddy raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Really?” John nods. “Then why aren’t you dancing around in joy?”

John shakes his head. “It was weird. It felt…”

“Wrong?” Teddy finishes for him, tilting his head to the side.

“No! No, it felt…good. It felt right. But. I don’t know, it just wasn’t how I expected it to go.”  

“What do you mean?” Teddy asks, crossing his arms.

John closes his eyes. “I don’t know. We were fighting, he said something horrible and I snapped. And I hit him,” he grimaces there and Teddy frowns again but doesn’t interrupt, “Then the next thing I knew, we were…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely.  

There’s a long pause, Teddy is looking contemplative and John waits for an instruction on how to proceed. It doesn’t come.

In the end, Teddy just sighs, “It’s complicated, that’s for sure,” John gives him a pleading look and the taller man chuckles. “I can’t tell you what to do John, but I will say this. You’ll regret it if you don’t pursue this. And Sherlock wants you to. _Trust me.”_ He gives John a meaningful look and, not for the first time, John wonders at what exactly transpired between the two men in Sherlock’s room the day before.

“Now, I really do have to go.”

John startles. He had forgotten momentarily that Teddy was meant to be travelling home.

“Of course.” He opens the door for his friend and Teddy turns back at the threshold.

“Thanks again for everything, it was really great seeing you again mate. And I’ll see you in three weeks!” He grins brightly, a contrast to his serious face a moment before.

“You too. Thank you, I mean.” John grasps Teddy’s arm and the man squeezes his in return.

“Ciao!” and with that, the man is gone.

John closes the door softly, leaning his forehead against it. He takes a deep breath and turns around before jumping in alarm. Sherlock is standing right behind him, face impassive.

“Jesus! You need to stop doing that.” John lets out a nervous laugh.

“Nice chat?” Sherlock asks, tilting his head towards the door. John inwardly cringes. It would be naive to think Sherlock hadn’t heard the conversation. The man would eavesdrop on a couple of pebbles if they could talk. John is about to snap something at him when he stops. Starting another argument isn’t going to help the situation. Sherlock is trying to diffuse the awkwardness with animosity, has been all morning. He doesn’t allow himself to rise to the bait. Instead, he steps closer to Sherlock, slowly enough for the man to draw away. He gently leans up and presses a soft kiss to Sherlock’s cheekbone. It’s an imitation of Teddy’s kiss earlier, but this time the intention is clear. Sherlock has frozen and John takes advantage, murmuring a quiet “I’m sorry” against his bruised skin. After a moment, he pulls back. Sherlock is staring at him with wide eyes and John gives him a small sincere smile. “I don’t want to fight with you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch at his own words echoed back to him from months before. “I don’t want to fight with you either.” he recites softly.

They stare at each other for a moment, eyes intense and the air is heavy with unspoken words. There’s still so much to say, but now isn’t the time. It’s too raw. John breaks the eye contact and nods towards the sofa. “Shall we see what’s on?”

Sherlock nods numbly and follows John onto to cushions. They settle next to each other, not quite touching but close enough that they would brush if one of them shifted. John puts on some sort of mundane talk show, not paying much attention. Sherlock is sitting ramrod straight beside him, but after some time, he slowly relaxes.

About an hour later, Sherlock is fast asleep, his dark head resting on John’s shoulder. John lets him rest.

He knows he can’t hold off the conversation that needs to happen forever, but a few more hours won’t hurt.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the disgustingly long delay. I do, actually, have every intention of finishing this story. Even if for my own satisfaction alone. Life has completely caught up with me. I found myself in a very toxic situation that, luckily, I am getting out of in the next few weeks so I am finally positive enough to resume this.  
> Comments forever appreciated and honoured.  
> As per, warning for grammar. 
> 
> Enjoy xo

  * John



About three months ago, John and Sherlock found a child. Not while on a case, not while intentionally looking for said child, but by pure coincidence. They had been walking back to Baker Street from food shopping and were bickering about the whole ordeal. Sherlock explaining that it would be far easier to do their shopping online and get it delivered to the flat so that they didn't have to go outside, John explaining that he liked to actually _look_ at his food before buying it, thank you very much.

"Besides, it's a nice day and I fancied a walk."

"It is _not_ a nice day. It is _cold_." Sherlock looked (and sounded) like a big moody teenager with his face pressed deep into the collar of his coat, even managing to somehow shove his hands into the pockets considering he was carrying a plastic bag in each. They dangled awkwardly from his exposed wrists, digging into the sensitive flesh and looking terribly uncomfortable.

"Sherlock, if you didn't want to come you didn't have to. I didn't force you to come with me."

"I needed to make sure you got the right brand of tea."

"What, Yorkshire Tea? The same brand we have _always_ bought?"

"And that you didn't forget the milk."

"When have I ever forgotten the milk?"

"Well, last time you forgot my-"

"Oh my god, I told you, I am not buying you tampons ever again. Stop going on about it."

Sherlock scowled but stopped going on about it.

John didn't really understand why Sherlock simply couldn't go out and buy his own damn experiment supplies but the detective had been particularly needy that morning, constantly asking where John was going every time he got up to go to the loo or in the kitchen. While a bit overwhelming, John secretly likes it when Sherlock gets into one of his 'separation anxiety' moods. It's kind of like having a giant, lanky puppy following him about. While it should be utterly annoying, and is if John is trying to have a productive day of any sort, but on a lazy Sunday like this John didn't mind in the least. It's during these moments that John gratefully realises Sherlock needs him around as much as John needs the detective. It gave him a warm feeling in his chest and he couldn't help but look over at Sherlock, feeling his eyes crinkle in affection.

Sherlock eyed him without turning his head. "What?"

John huffed out a small laugh and shook his head. "Nothing, nothing."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit but then brightened considerably. "Oh! You were jesting! You did get the tampons after all!"

John let out a loud groan and bowed his head, listening to Sherlock babble excitedly about how the different sizes and brands determine this and that and John honestly didn't want to know and effectively tuned him out. Even still, John always found Sherlock’s unlimited enthusiasm utterly refreshing, the almost child-like passion that hadn’t been damped by age or self-neglect. John often wondered how Sherlock had so much energy, considering his ‘I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead’ attitude to his wellbeing. Then again, the man did drink a hell of a lot of caffeine. Not for the first time, John hoped that was the only stimulant Sherlock was dabbling in these days.

It took him a second to realise when Sherlock suddenly stopped talking, and he glanced up at his friend only to realise the man had also stopped walking. John turned and saw Sherlock standing a few paces behind, staring down into an alleyway with a small frown.

"What are you doing?" John called a bit tiredly. He really hoped Sherlock hadn't spotted a pair of curtains perfect for setting fire to or a ladle perfect for pouring acid everywhere or something along those lines. John had absolutely no desire to go bin diving that morning. Or any morning to be perfectly honest but sometimes duty calls. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible and John frowned and started heading back towards his friend. "What?"

"There's a child." Sherlock murmured again, this time John was close enough to hear and he paused in surprise.

"You what?"

Sherlock simply pointed into the alley and John squinted into the shadowed space. There, huddled into a corner, was a small figure. John took a few steps inside the alley, noticing the tremors running through the tiny frame.

"Is he-" John began to ask, but the man already understood.

"No. I don't recognise him."

John wasn't sure how Sherlock could be so confident of that when the child had his face buried into his drawn-up knees, and he rather suspected the detective didn’t know _every_ homeless person in London, but he didn't comment. John started walking slowly towards the child again, holding up a hand when Sherlock moved to follow.

"No, stay here." John murmured quietly, well aware that it wouldn't be a good idea if the child looked up and saw two large men approaching him while backed into a corner. "Hey," John called softly. "Are you alright?"

The child didn't respond or even acknowledge the sound of John's voice. The doctor frowned, wondering if the child was asleep. "Hello?" He tried again, this time a little louder. He stopped about a foot away from the small boy, who up close looked no more than six or seven. Reluctant to touch him in case he startled the child, John crouched down in front of him. "Hey there little man, are you okay?" He asked again, keeping his voice pitched low and gentle.

Suddenly the child snapped his head up and he jumped in surprise at John's proximity. John swiftly shuffled back a few steps, which made him feel a bit like a crab, and he held up his hands.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. We just want to make sure you're okay," John placated, watching as sharp blue eyes jumped from his face to Sherlock's then back again in quick succession.

"What are you doing down here?" John asked. The boy's wide eyes scanned rapidly over John's face and he didn't reply.

"Where are you parents?" John tried again.

The boy simply stared.

John frowned a bit and glanced back at Sherlock. Sherlock was watching the child intently, face eerily blank. The man was obviously not inclined to give any helpful advice so John turned back towards the boy.

"What's your name?"

The boy, who had been following John's gaze to Sherlock, looked quickly back to John and his eyes dropped to his mouth briefly.

John heard a sharp intake of breath behind him and suddenly Sherlock was sitting next to him on the cold, dirty ground with his legs crossed. John watched in bemusement as Sherlock's right hand came up and he rested his middle and index fingers to the side of his brow, before brushing them away and twisted them forward into the air as if he was flicking away an errant hair. He pointed towards the child before wagging his finger in front of him.

The boy, who had been following the movements with keen eyes suddenly broke out into a large toothy grin. His small hands came up into sight and he fluttered his fingers around in such quick succession that John couldn't follow the movement.

Sherlock, however, smiled and waved his hand in a, what John had assumed was a universal, 'hello' before opening his left palm and used his right index finger to draw a curved line from the tip of his left index to the tip of his thumb. He smiled and murmured, "John," as he did so and John blinked at his face.

"What?"

"That's his name. John." Sherlock didn't take his eyes away from the child's face as he pointed towards the doctor, his fingers flying around his face and John recognised the errant hair gesture again. The boy then turned his grin towards John instead and began signing in earnest. Sherlock raised a hand and the boy stopped, Sherlock shook his head as his hands twirled around each other and the boy glanced at John a bit sadly before turning his full attention back to the detective.

John stared at his friend as he communicated silently with the small child, utterly baffled. It shouldn't really surprise him that Sherlock knew sign language, he had never come across a language Sherlock couldn't speak at least some-what fluently, but it still took his breath away every time he witnessed it. The sheer intelligence and talent this man possessed should be the cause of jealousy, but John never could muster up that particular emotion. It was simple awe. And pride. And love.

John blinked. _What?_

Sherlock was turning back to John now. “He lost his parents in a crowd and didn’t know where to go.”

John looked back at the small boy and gave him an encouraging smile, couldn’t imagine the terror of becoming lost and not being able to use his voice to call for his parents and hear their reassuring reply.  The child only had eyes for Sherlock though, who turned back to him and this time translated what he was signing as he did so. “We want to help you find them, will you come with us?”

The boy nodded immediately, moving to stand as Sherlock fluidly rose and held out his hands. One for the child to take and one for John to grip as his leg protested as he tried to rise. John didn’t know whether to feel relief or concern over the child’s unhesitant trust, but then again he was very young and was just grateful Sherlock had spotted him before an unsavoury sort did.

They took him to the station, where lo and behold, his parents were frantically trying to communicate to a harried looking young officer by scribbling down the boy’s appearance on a scrap of paper. The boy ran immediately to them, wrapping his small arms around his mother’s legs and she flinched in surprise before whimpering and falling onto her knees gathering the child into her arms. The father placed a hand over his eyes in relief for a moment before gripping the child’s face between his large hands and leaning down to place a lingering kiss on top of his head. The three began signing to each other fluidly, much faster than Sherlock had been.

The officer looked towards at John and Sherlock in immense gratitude, slumping down into his chair. John couldn’t help the smile that had overtaken his face, and he directed it at Sherlock who was following the family’s conversation with keen eyes.

“You amaze me.”

The words were soft with reverence and John didn’t even realise he had spoken aloud until Sherlock’s gaze had snapped to his. He felt himself flush slightly, waiting for a sarcastic reply or the show of bravado that Sherlock usually expressed when praised. It didn’t come. The detective just stared at him, reading something in his expression that John could only assume was pure honesty. Sherlock began blinking rapidly, a mannerism John recognised when the man didn’t know how to process something he assumed as illogical. He had a sudden urge to gather the man into his arms and flinched slightly towards him before freezing and holding himself unnaturally still.

Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement and he took a step into John’s personal space. John’s heart stuttered and he stared up at the expressionless face inches from his own, not knowing what he wanted except that he _wanted._

A throat cleared behind him and John jumped slightly, turning towards the sound. The officer was looking at them a bit pointedly, a vague look of amusement playing around his mouth.

John then noticed the small family watching them also. Sherlock deftly stepped back and towards them instead. The child’s parents began signing in unison, a perfect symmetry that John could only admire and Sherlock smiled at them with uncharacteristically warm eyes. Again, he spoke what he was signing as he replied, “You’re welcome. I’m glad he is safe.”

 

* * *

 

John pulls himself out of the memory, heart thudding. Of course, he remembers the scenario in dazzling clarity as he does with every memory of Sherlock on his list, but the memory of how he had _felt_ is a new occurrence. As if, only now, he is allowing himself to admit the feelings he had been suppressing for so long.

Maybe it was the kiss. Maybe it was Teddy. He isn’t certain, but something has changed. A new clarity has settled into John and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

It’s been two weeks since Teddy left. Two weeks since John had kissed the bruise he inflicted on Sherlock’s skin.

They have been living in a quiet fog of what their life was like before, swirling around each other and not really saying anything. Or anything substantial anyway.

John hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of indulging his need to read the list again. He felt out of place, adrift, not knowing what to do or what was acceptable. It hasn’t helped that Sherlock hasn’t had one case during this time. It especially hasn’t helped that Sherlock hasn’t delved into a usual and expected sulk. Two weeks is a long time for the man to go unentertained, but he hasn’t snapped once. Hasn’t even glared or huffed. He is the epitome of politeness and it is unnerving. John has no idea how to act around the man. Every morning he will go downstairs and Sherlock is either up already and immaculately dressed, making tea for the two of them, or will appear within the hour. Immaculately dressed and making tea for the two of them.

John had tried to rationalise what he wanted from his flatmate. But, quite simply, he didn’t know. He can’t deny that the memory of their kiss burned something deep and primal in his gut, a need so poignant that when he thinks of it he can’t breathe. But he also can’t deny that that desperate want comes hand in hand with a blinding terror. A snowball of what-ifs and buts.

John can’t stand the dynamic between the two of them now. It’s as if Sherlock is simply existing in the corner of his eye. Always there, a dark shadow that darts away whenever he tries to turn his full gaze upon it

It is with this turmoil that John turned his attention back to the list. Hoping for, looking for, he isn’t sure what.

“Anything interesting?”

John slams the laptop closed without thinking, his eyes snapping up to see Sherlock leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, face closed. His impossibly pale eyes glance at the laptop before flickering up to John’s face. He raises an eyebrow and John wills himself not to flush.

“No,” John forces a casual tone, “Just finishing a blog entry."

Sherlock hums, inclining his head in a mockingly indulgent manner.

“I thought you had gone to bed.” John rasps, grimacing slightly at the accusatory tone.

“Something was keeping me up.” Sherlock steps into the room, stopping just shy of John’s knees where he is sat on the sofa.

“Oh?” John can’t help but stare up at the man, his face shadowed in the dim light of the living room.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, simply stares down at the older man with infuriating calmness. John starts to feel uncomfortable at the scrutiny and darts his eyes around the room.

“Is it the light?” John asks lamely, flicking a hand towards the lamp in the corner of the room. “Because I can-”

He cuts himself off as Sherlock takes another step forwards, his shins brushing against John’s knees. John’s breath hitches slightly and he moves the laptop onto the cushion next to him automatically. Sherlock steps immediately forward again, giving the seated man no choice but to spread his thighs to allow the detective to settle between them.

“Which one was it?”

John blinks, willing his brain to catch up with the words. “Huh?”

“Which bullet point were you reading?”

John belatedly realises there is no point trying to deny the fact he was reading his list again. He is curious to know how familiar Sherlock is with it, however.

“John.”

Sherlock’s eyes dart to the right for a second before coming to rest instantly back onto John’s face. “The deaf boy. How fitting.”

John doesn’t know what to make of that statement and so doesn’t say anything.

“Do you remember what you said?” Sherlock murmurs.

“You amaze me.” John whispers without hesitation.

Sherlock blinks as if he wasn’t expecting that answer. Either he was thinking of something else John had said, or he didn’t expect John to remember saying it. John assumes the latter.

John clears his throat. “You do, you know. Amaze me,” he purposefully adopts a light and casual air and gives Sherlock a small teasing smile. “But you know that, I say it often enough.”

John is waiting for the reply of ‘I am well aware of how amazing I am’ accompanied by a smirk and glittering eyes, but Sherlock continues to just stare. He tilts his dark head slightly to one side, a mannerism that has always unnerved the doctor.

“You do, don't you.” Sherlock murmurs at last, lips barely moving.

John is starting to feel quite unsure of himself, wonders what on earth the detective is thinking. As a show of bravado, John spreads his hands up in a shrug and leans further back into the sofa, a perfect picture of ease. It lasts for about a second. As soon as John moves, Sherlock follows and crowds into him. Onto him. Knees pressing into the cushions on either side of John's hips, hands mirrored on either side of his head, gripping the back of the seat.

John’s eyes widen and he freezes, leaning as far back into the soft pillows as they allow. Doesn't allow himself to speak. To even breathe.

Sherlock is still watching him with that blank intensity. He leans his face forward. John’s eyes flutter as warm, minty breath hits his face and he can’t help but tilt his own head upwards slightly.

John's eyes snap open when the warmth air hovering over his mouth bypasses it completely and then Sherlock’s lips are resting on his neck. He feels the man inhale and a shot of electricity pangs through him straight to his crotch. John tilts his head to the side, allowing more access without any conscious thought. He waits. For what, he isn’t sure. Sherlock doesn’t move except to exhale in a sigh and slumps slightly. John raises his arms and hesitantly crosses them over Sherlock’s back. If it wasn’t for the strain in his trousers, the doctor would take this as nothing but an odd embrace.  

They sit like that for a minute. Two.

After a while, John starts to feel the weight of the man in his lap and he shifts slightly. “Sherlock-” he murmurs.

The sound of his voice seems to cause an electric effect on the man, and Sherlock jumps up suddenly. John feels cold without the heat of the other body pressed against him and he snatches Sherlock’s wrists in a firm grasp without thinking. The man pauses in his retreat.

“What are you doing?” John asks quietly, not sure if he means the hasty retreat or the moment they just shared.

The taller man’s eyes dart from the floor to John’s and he grimaces slightly. Either at the question or the daunting prospect of addressing what was happening between them. Sherlock tugs slightly at his wrists. It’s the lost expression on his face that makes John let go.

Sherlock doesn’t meet his gaze, stands still for a second before turning and calmly leaving the room.

John’s eyes close as he hears the man’s bedroom close softly, feeling everything and nothing at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments, it really does brighten my day!

When John wakes the next morning, it's to the sound of crying.

He bolts upright in bed, heart pounding and ears straining. It’s high pitched enough to be a woman. John holds his breath.

A particularly load wail hits his ears and he relaxes marginally. Definitely a woman. Sherlock must be with a client.

Sherlock. God. What a mess. John rubs his hands rigorously across his face, fingers digging into his eye sockets. Flashes of the lithe man crawling into John’s lap flickered in the darkness of his lids and the doctor feels a stir in his gut. He rubs his eyes harder to dissolve the image. It is then overtaken by the small, vulnerable expression on his friends face just before he had turned and fled to his room for the night. John sighs and lets his hands drop with a slap onto his mattress.

“Jesus.” John mutters to himself, feeling rather out of his depth.

Of course, he is well aware that the entire situation could actually be deemed very simple if they only _talked_ about what was happening between them. But this is John and Sherlock. The epitome of poor communication and English aloofness.

_Can’t wait for another day of suffering._ John lets out a snort that is borderline delirious.

Well, no better time to emerge from the safety of his room than now. It's not as if he can barge into the living room and demand that they talk about what on earth happened last night while a hysterical client in sat right there.

He almost wishes it wasn’t a saturday, then he could use the excuse that he had work and effectively avoid the inevitable.  

John slips from his bed, drags on some clothes and makes his way downstairs.

The first thing John sees entering the living room is Sherlock sitting, surprisingly, in John’s chair. Dressed impeccably, back ramrod straight, face cut from stone. Knuckles white as he brings a mug of tea to his lips.

The second thing John sees is-

“ _Rachel?_ ”

The woman is sitting in Sherlock’s chair, which looks all wrong, and she raises her puffy and bloodshot eyes at him pitifully before all but leaping out of the seat.

“Oh, John!” She wails, throwing herself into his arms and sobbing. John catches her to stop himself toppling over, glancing at Sherlock with wide eyes.

Sherlock stares straight ahead, unmoving.

“What's wrong?” John aims the question at the detective but Sherlock shows no sign of hearing.

Rachel pulls away slightly to look at John's face. “It's Jed!”

John can feel his face shuttering, and he moves backwards slightly. “What happened?”

“He's gone!”

John frowns. Okay. What does she expect him to do about that? Not that he’s surprised it didn't work out, but that's hardly John's business anymore. He hasn't seen or spoken to the woman in weeks. “Oh. Right. I'm sorry to hear that-”

“No no,” she cries desperately, “He's gone missing!”

_Oh._ John feels a little bad for assuming that Jed had just left the woman. Then again…

“Maybe he just left you and didn't say goodbye?” It's Sherlock who voices John’s thought and not for the first time John wonders if the man can actually read his mind. Sherlock is glancing up at Rachel now, face half hidden behind the cup as he takes a sip, eyes wide and innocent. John snorts.

Rachel flicks an aghast expression between the two of them and John shakes himself.

“He didn't just leave! He wouldn't do that! We love each other!”

“Oh, okay.” Sherlock nods indulgently. John bites the inside of his cheek to stop a completely inappropriate smirk from evolving when the pale eyes flick to his for a second.

“Plus,” Rachel continues, voice pitching lower and less hysterical, “He didn't take anything with him. All his stuff is still at ours.”

“‘Ours’? You live together?” John asks in surprise. Jesus, it hadn't been that long since the two of _them_ were together.

Rachel gives him a wary side look that screams guilt before stepping away from him smartly and turning to address Sherlock.

“Will you help me find him? Please?” She's stopped crying now, thankfully, and John can't help but glare a bit at her turned back.

He isn't pleased Jeff or Jed or whatever the hell his name is has gone missing. _He isn't_. But a dark suspicion is arising within him. Who’s he kidding, suspicion? It's bloody obvious. She must have been seeing the younger man while John and her were still together if they had already moved in together. Rachel wasn't the type to dive head first into anything. She was hesitant about everything, utterly unimpulsive. The complete opposite of Sherlock.

If John thinks about it now, he would say that actually, she was really quite boring.

When John glances at Sherlock, the detective's eyes are already trained on him, reading his expression. He quirks an eyebrow at the blonde and John shrugs slightly in response. _It’s your call, I don’t care,_ the gesture translates.

Sherlock looks back at the dark haired woman and holds out his hand. He waits. She blinks.

After a moment of silence Sherlock lets out an impatient huff, “Your purse. I should probably know what the man looks like if I am to find him, no?”

Rachel blinks again. “My purse?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes your purse! You’ll have a picture of him in there won’t you? That’s what you people _do_ isn’t it? When you _love_ someone?” He says the word like it’s utterly preposterous.  

Rachel gives Sherlock a strange look. “Erm, no. Not really. Not in this century,” She turns the look to John, smirking slightly with a disbelieving look in her dark eyes that screams _Is he serious?_ John responds with a venomous glare and she starts slightly before hurriedly groping in her jeans pocket for her phone. “But I do have a few pictures of him on my phone.” Her tone is carefully level while her thumbs fly over the screen before placing it in the man’s still-outstretched hand.

Sherlock ignores her completely as his eyes flit over the screen. His eyebrows twitch upwards for a second before his face turns expressionless, the movement so quick John couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it. He studies the picture for another moment before using his thumb to swipe right. Rachel twitches slightly towards him as he glances through her photos, but drops her hand just as quickly. After a minute or so, Sherlock stops swiping and pauses at a picture. He glances up at Rachel with a puckish look. She turns a deep red, huffs and holds out her hand expectantly. Sherlock's lips twitch but he tosses the phone at her without looking back at the screen. She fumbles to catch it, tapping the screen off as soon as it's steady. Not that John was looking.

“I know where he is.” Sherlock announces, rising with a stretch and sounding bored.

“What?” Rachel starts. “You do?” Her voice hopeful but her expression dubious.

Sherlock doesn't dignify that with a response, John knows how much he detests repeating himself, and leisurely heads over to the coat rack by the door. He chucks John's coat at him before shrugging on his own.

“Well, where is he then?” Rachel asks a bit desperately.

Sherlock turns to look at her with a rather vicious grin. “Let's go and see.”

 

* * *

 

John wonders why Sherlock is helping Rachel. Then again, Jed might be in some sort of danger and it wouldn't be morally correct to ignore the call of a missing person. Plus, considering Sherlock hasn't had a case in two weeks, any type of mystery probably seems appealing at this point.

Not that it is a mystery at all, if Sherlock is telling the truth about knowing where the man is. John himself is rather sceptical.

“Do you really know where he is?” John asks quietly. The three are jammed into the back of a taxi, John sat in the middle. Rachel is staring out of the window, paying them no mind as she watches the passing scenery of London with her bottom lip between her teeth. John doesn't know why she didn't just sit opposite them, squashed as they are, and being the last one in the car. But the warm press of Sherlock's thigh against his own is enough to stop him caring too much.

Sherlock turns his head to face him, the close proximity nearly causing their noses to brush. John swallows. Sherlock's eyes follow the movement of his throat before answering. “Of course. Why would I lie?”

John doesn't know, can't ever seem to follow what Sherlock is thinking these days, so he simply shrugs and turns away.

A warm hand rests on his knee. It isn't the one he wants.

“Thank you John,” Rachel taps lightly with her fingers, causing John to look down at the hand on his leg before up at her face. He feels a strong urge to slap the hand away.

“What for?”

“Just-for helping. For not turning me away after…” she trails off and looks at John a little imploringly.

“Yeah well,” he clears his throat. “I haven't actually done anything yet, so.” He shrugs.

“Still…” Her hand shifts up slightly and she smiles prettily at him. “I really do appreciate it. You're a good man.”

John doesn't really know what to say to that so he just smiles a bit tightly and reaches down to pat her hand twice, using the gesture as an excuse to gently brush it away from his thigh. Taking the hint, she folds it back onto her lap.

John can't help but glance at Sherlock, and his breath hitches slightly at the look on his face. His eyes are staring darkly down at John’s, now empty, thigh. His full lips pinched into a straight line. Feeling John's gaze, he snaps his head back round to face the window to his right, effectively hiding his expression from the doctor. John can’t help but feel strangely smug and, feeling bold, he reaches out and squeezes Sherlock’s own thigh. The detective starts and spins his head back round so quickly his neck cracks. John is already looking pointedly away, his hand resting innocently back on his lap.

In the corner of his eye, John sees Sherlock's left hand twitch and he hold his breath. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock shifts it over onto John’s leg, just above the knee where sensitive nerves sit under the skin and squeezes back. Hard. _Really hard._

“Oi!” John jerks his leg away as a shot of sharp pain radiates up his thigh. He turns to scowl at Sherlock, who gives him a rather vindictive look and flips his hair as he turns away once more. John can’t suppress a grin. “Little shit,” he murmurs. He spots Sherlock’s answering smirk in the reflection of the glass.

When John faces forward again, he notices Rachel giving them a rather odd look. He ignores it.

Suddenly, Sherlock lurches forward. “Here!” He commands the driver and is out of the car before it has even rolled to a full stop.

The three of them end up standing side-by-side on the pavement, looking up at an old decrepit manor house. John can recognise that it would have undoubtedly been a handsome building back in the day, but age and neglect gives it a sagging, discoloured look. The boarded up windows rounds the whole miserable sight up with a bow.

“Have you lead us here to murder us?” John asks his friend dryly.

Sherlock shoots him a look which is part amusement, part exasperation. “I wouldn’t murder you _here_ , John.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Come along!” Sherlock orders cheerfully, all but skipping to the front door.

“Wait!” Rachel cries, hurrying to follow them, “Why would Jed be here!?”

The question goes unanswered as Sherlock raps smartly on the worn wood. After a moment, the door creaks open an inch and a beady, watery eye appears in the crack.

“What?” A gruff voice demands.

“Hello Frank,” Sherlock beams. “May we come in?”

The eye darts a look up and down Sherlock’s body and flicks to John and Rachel before the door opens a tad wider, revealing a pale haggard face with deep lines around the eyes and rotting teeth bared in a nasty grin.

“‘Avn’t seen you ‘ere for a time,” the man purrs oily and is forced to open the door wider as Sherlock doesn’t wait to brush past him into the dark house.

“I’m glad you’ve established that,” Sherlock replies, turning to give John a strangely pointed look. John frowns in confusion as he follows his friend, ignoring the suspicious and bloodshot eyes that track him. He feels Rachel grip onto the back of his jacket as she shuffles in behind them.

The door creaks shut and the house is cloaked in darkness. The inside looks no better than the outside, walls damp and bleeding graffiti. The floorboards are chipped and flaring, reaching upwards to trip unsuspecting feet. A, John assumes once rather grand, staircase is situated in the middle of the room and Sherlock heads for it without hesitation.

“Sherlock-” John starts, warily.

“This way!” Sherlock interrupts, playing a rather twisted tour guide as he bounds up the stairs, leaping fluidly over missing boards with practiced ease. “Watch your step now.”

John and Rachel follow carefully.

Once they get onto the first landing, Sherlock leads them down a dim hallway, bypassing doors that are open and closed. John spots the occasional person, laying in dirty clothes on dirty mattresses. Some are jittering and muttering to themselves, others so still they could be dead. A sharp, acidic smell is in the air and John gets a sinking feeling of dread in his stomach.

“Here we are!” Sherlock stops in front of an open door and flings out an arm towards the room with a flourish. He’s got a horrible smile on his face as he looks at Rachel and declares, “Ladies first!” with a small mocking bow. Rachel doesn’t move. Sherlock shrugs and moves to enter the room.

Before he can, John reaches out and grabs his bicep harshly. Sherlock glances back, eyebrows raised. The grin slides off his face as he reads the expression on John’s face. John shakes his head at him minutely, crushed and angry. Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together for a moment before that same lost look appears on his face from the night before. John lets out an explosive breath and his grip tightens on his arm for a second before he lets it go. Only to reach out again a second later as Sherlock slowly moves to enter the room again. He tugs the detective backwards slightly and steps around him, entering the room first.

It’s dark and cold, occupied by a lot more people than any other room they had walked past. Most are scattered around on blankets on the floor, a few piled onto a collapsed and stained sofa in the corner. No one pays them any mind, too out of reality to comprehend what is happening around them. John sees Sherlock’s face in them all and wants to hit something. He’s never seen his friend in this state, thankfully, but that doesn’t mean he never _has_ been. He hears Rachel gasp behind him as she enters the room, dropping her hand from his jacket to cover her mouth. John turns to Sherlock expectantly. _Might as well get this over with._

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, looking a bit grim, before flickering his eyes around the dusty room and settling on a fixated spot. Without looking away, he raises a hand slowly and points. John doesn’t look, but Rachel does. She lets out a strangled cry and darts forward.

“ _Jed!_ ” Her voice breaks on the word and John closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Sherlock is watching him. John turns away and follows his ex to where she is kneeling next to a prone figure spread out on a mattress, hands hovering over his face but not daring to touch.  

John crouches next to her, reaching out and feeling for the young man’s pulse. Its strong but rapid. He taps on a pale cheek gently with the back of his hand. “Jed? Can you hear me?”

The man’s eyes flicker open, with surprising clarity considering, and settles almost instantly on Rachel's distraught face. He takes in her watering eyes and lets out a low groan. He struggles to sit upright.

“What are you doing here?” He asks her, voice hoarse.

Rachel lets out a whimper. “What am I doing here? What are _you_ doing here!?”

Jed doesn’t answer and glances around, first at John then settling on Sherlock.

“Alright, Sherlock.”

John spins to see Sherlock incline his head in acknowledgment, face impassive.

Then Rachel starts _screaming._

 

* * *

 

“So you know him?”

John and Sherlock are stood in the kitchen of their flat, John making three cups of tea and Sherlock simply watching.

Jed is fine. Not an overdose, as John expected, but a relapse, as Sherlock explained with knowledge only gained from experience.

Rachel and her young artist had ended up in an blaring row. Jed didn’t seem, or rather didn’t want, to recognise the severity of the situation. The young man hadn’t even known how long he had gone MIA. Didn’t really seem to care. In the end, after ample refusals to go to the hospital, they had shoved the young man into a taxi back to the flat he shares with Rachel. The woman, cold and vicious at that point, had demanded he collect his things and go.

John couldn’t help but feel for her, yet at the same time that didn’t stop a terrible thought of _You don’t really love him_ running through his mind.

She had ended up coming back to Baker Street with the two of them, refusing to go back to the flat to see the artist, and had dropped promptly down onto their sofa and hadn’t moved since.

John can practically hear the face Sherlock is pulling behind him. “In a way.”

“Like you know Frank?” John stirs the tea, not looking at his friend who is leaning against the fridge.

“I suppose.”

John nods jerkily.

“John-”

“No. It’s fine,” John interrupts, stuttering, “I heard what he said. You know, that you hadn’t erm. Yeah you hadn’t been there in-”

Warm arms suddenly circle John from behind and he almost drops the spoon in his hand.

“One year, eight months and six days.” Sherlock murmurs into his ear. John swallows hard. The time frame doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Yeah. Good,” John heaves in a breath and lets it out again slowly. He turns in the circle of Sherlock’s arms and the younger man drops them but doesn't move back. “Why did you do that?"

The question could be aimed at a great many things but Sherlock takes it as an easier route of discussion aimed at the woman sitting in silence in their living room.

“She hurt you.” Sherlock replies, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

John smiles a bit. He clears his throat and looks away from the pale, piercing gaze. “How is it that everything always circles back to you?” He asks, voice purposefully light and teasing.

Sherlock’s lips twitch marginally and he replies in a superior tone, “The world is in my orbit, John.”

“Can’t deny that,” John huffs a laugh. “And I suppose I’m also stuck in this orbit?”

“You’re the central element.” Sherlock responds, matter-of-fact.

John stares up at his mad, vicious, lovely, friend and the sudden urge to kiss him punches into his gut out of nowhere.

Sherlock reads something in his gaze and lets out a slow breath that dances over the doctor's face. His pale eyes glance down to John’s mouth momentarily and he sways forward slightly. John's heart picks up and he takes a step into Sherlock's space. Their chests brush.

_“John!”_

They both jump at the loud screeching demand from the living room. Sherlock rolls his eyes and steps away. John lets out a low growl and glares towards the door, heart still thudding and anticipation now replaced with irritation.

A thought suddenly occurs to him. He looks back at Sherlock, who’s making his way back into the living room, and frowns. “If you knew who he was, why did you look through all of her other pictures?”

Sherlock glances over his shoulder. “Because she didn’t want me to.”

John barks out a laugh before trying to balance three mugs of boiling tea in his arms, following.

“Alright?” John asks as soon as he enters the room, passing Sherlock a mug where he is settling into his chair before offering another to Rachel.

She accepts it with a frown. “Do you have anything stronger?”

“Afraid not,” John lies, hovering for a second before settling on the other side of the sofa. “You alright?” He asks again, sipping at his tea.

Rachel gives him a look, face still blotchy and swollen from crying. “Not really.”

John nods slightly in understanding. There’s an awkward silence where he doesn’t know what else to say. If he’s being perfectly honest with himself, he kind of wants Rachel to leave. The day’s adventure had been uncomfortable and unsettling for John, with awful reminders of who Sherlock used to be. He’s not angry anymore, but he still would rather like the day to be over. He feels a confusing mixture of satisfaction and guilt over what they had discovered. He wants to just sit and watch some crap telly with Sherlock and not have to think too hard about anything before heading to bed for an early night. He’s not going to do anything tomorrow, he decides. Nothing at all.

“How is it you knew him?” Rachel asks suddenly. John looks up and she has a hard look on her face as she stares at Sherlock.

Sherlock gives away nothing in his expression as he glances up from his phone. He takes a moment to reply, “We used to frequent the same circles.” He mutters vaguely.

“So you’re the same as him?” She asks viciously. “A junkie?”

John stiffens at the tone and word.

“Not anymore.” Sherlock replies coldly.  

Rachel gives him a disgusted look and turns away, aiming the look at John instead. “How can you live with someone like that?”

John’s eyes narrow dangerously and opens his mouth to give a scathing response, but Sherlock beats him to it.

“It’s fine John. Rachel here is simply upset that the man she loves has turned out to be someone she doesn’t know at all, and as I was the one to show her this discovery it is understandable she would reflect that resentment towards the messenger,” Rachel spluttered in indignation and Sherlock glances back at his phone, sounding bored. “I’m sure the guilt and frustration of not seeing the signs of a relapsing addict who she not only shared a roof but a bed with, must be rather overwhelming. We mustn’t hold her accountable to her rudeness. Even if I did do exactly what she asked of me,” He glances up at her again with hooded eyes. “Finding him.”

Rachel glares at Sherlock for a long moment, face slowly turning a deep red. She glances at John, who simply blinks at her, before turning back. “Fuck you.” She spits.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replies calmly, rising elegantly from his seat and stretching like a cat. “On that note, it was _lovely_ seeing you again Rachel. I do so hope you will stay in touch. If you’ll excuse me.” With that, he glides from the room.

Rachel watches him go, her face twisted unattractively. She looks back at John. “How can you possibly-”

“Yeah. Cool. So it was nice seeing you again,” John interrupts, moving to stand. Rachel reaches out and grabs his arm to stop him.

“Wait, John,” He looks back at her and her expression has morphed into a desperate look. “What am I going to do?”

John shrugs that he doesn’t know and doesn’t care.

“I think-” She stops and glances down. Her hand slides down his arm and rests over his hand. “I think...I’ve made a terrible mistake.” She looks up at him through her lashes. John stares in disbelief.

Encouraged by his lack of response, she shifts closer and raises her other hand to grip onto the back of John’s neck. Her eyes are a bit manic as she leans forward. “You’re such a good man John, a good man,” Her breath ghosts over his face and John can see clumps of dried mascara in her tear ducts. “We don’t deserve these people in our lives.”

John slaps her hands away and stands in a fluid motion.

“You need to leave.” He bites out angrily.

Rachel gives him a beseeching look but rises from the sofa. “John can’t you see-”

“-Nah, not really.” He gives her a cold smile. “I can’t help you. Nor do I really want to, to be honest.” John takes a step back as she shuffles towards him. She freezes. “Sherlock is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t need _you_ of all people insulting him in _our_ home.”

She opens her mouth again but nothing comes out.

John stomps over to the front door and flings it wide. “Bye, Rachel.”

Rachel stares at him. “John-”

John shakes his head, raising a finger to his lips and taps it against his mouth.

Rachel looks like she’s about to start crying again for a moment before anger fills her expression. She snatches up her coat and bag and, without looking at John, storms out of the door. John slams it shut behind her.

“Has she gone?”

John spins around, spotting Sherlock leaning against his closed bedroom door. John absently gets a sense of déjà vu as he wonders if Sherlock has been standing there the entire time, listening to everything, but the thought is overshadowed by a wave of _angerwantprotect_ and he surges forward. He grabs Sherlock by the front of his shirt, shoves him back onto the door and kisses him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long delay-Happy New Year! I hope 2018 is spectacular for you all! 
> 
> This is the end of this story, kind of-I will do an epilogue- and it's been a slow-going blast. I've adored writing this, especially as it's my first proper fic that I've actually seen to the end.
> 
> Thank you everyone who commented and liked, the support has made me so unbelievably happy. I love you all. 
> 
> (Beware grammer)

John had always found Sherlock objectively attractive. In fact, the first thought that had gone through John's head when they had met was;  _ God, he's pretty. _

The second thought had been;  _ God, his voice.  _

The third;  _ God, he's rude. _

But finding someone attractive was different to being attracted  _ to  _ them, and John discovered he was attracted to Sherlock two and a half months into their living arrangement. Surprisingly enough, or maybe not, the discovery was made by Sherlock being a complete dick. 

It had started when Sherlock decided one day, out of the blue, that he actually much preferred John's chair and thus from that moment on, it belonged to him. 

Still wanting his view of the kitchen, however, the man had dragged it into the position of his leather chair and had shoved that one in the general direction of where John’s chair previously sat. 

John had got home from work, tired and grumpy, had frowned, asked Sherlock why he was sitting in his chair and Sherlock had pompously replied that it was now his. John told him to move. Sherlock said no.

The result could only be described as a full-on playground wrestling match. Sherlock was strong but light and it hadn't taken John long to realise the best cause of action was to scoop him bodily up off the seat, dodging flailing limbs and kicks aimed at his stomach, and dump him unceremoniously onto the floor. He had almost tripped in his haste to scramble into the armchair, and it certainly hadn't helped when Sherlock had launched himself around his shins. 

The taller man, never one to give up a fight, had then set about climbing onto the chair too, crouching in the small space between John and the arm and using his knees to try and shove the doctor off. 

When that hadn't worked, Sherlock had then simply stood up where he was perched on the cushion, pirouetted gracefully and had sat down with an over-exaggerated sigh of content right onto John's lap. He had leaned back into John's chest, stretching and making loud claims about how ‘ _ comfortable this chair is’  _ and ‘ _ I could stay here  _ all  _ day!’  _

Sherlock had then turned his head around to give John a challenging smirk, and with the shift of his body had suddenly frozen. It was at that point John realised that yes, he  _ must  _ be attracted to Sherlock because the man had obviously just felt his erection and there was no way then that John could pretend it was all in his head. 

Sherlock had stopped smiling, blinked about a thousand times in one second and had opened his mouth slightly, mimicking his widening eyes. John, then, had panicked. All but threw the detective off him and dived from the room. 

They had never mentioned it and John’s chair was back in it’s rightful place by the next morning.

But that look, the surprised, utterly  _ enthralled  _ look Sherlock had given, one that John had then mistaken for panic or even disgust, is the exact same look that Sherlock currently has on his face right now.

Pinned against the door, Sherlock stares and stares. John has pulled back slightly to look at him, but his body is still pressed flush against his. John stares back, cursing his impulse control but also refusing to run off like he did last time. Waiting it out. Waiting…

He tries unsuccessfully to read Sherlock’s expression once the shock recedes from his face. John had really rather expected the detective to launch into a full blown kissing attack like he had done before. But he doesn’t. He stands there, hands pressed against the wood on either side of him. John then has a horrible thought; the reason they had stopped before wasn’t because John had run off, but because Sherlock had  _ pushed him away.  _

Oh god. Has he completely misread what had been happening between them the past few weeks? The almost kisses. The  _ flirting _ . 

The man had crawled onto his damn lap not the night before! 

Letting out a painful gust of air, John goes to take a step back. Sherlock finally moves, and it’s to grip onto the material of John’s shirt by his waist with one hand, holding him in place. 

“I’m confused,” John whispers a bit desperately. “What do you want?” 

Sherlock just stares at him with wide eyes. 

John thinks about last night again, how he had first thought Sherlock was starting something intimate. No, he  _ had  _ been starting something intimate, but he had bypassed his mouth and had simply rested against him. John sucks in a breath. He nods slightly, either at himself or Sherlock or both. He slowly raises a hand, and rests it against Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock immediately closes his eyes and leans his face into the palm. 

Memories begin assaulting John’s mind; Sherlock’s response to Teddy’s gentle handling of him _.  _ Sherlock sighing into his neck as he rests contently in John’s lap. Sherlock giggling and covered in the dust of a house recently demolished. Sherlock smiling softly as a scared child is reunited with his parents. Sherlock hugging his knees to his chest as he glances miserably at an empty fish bowl. Sherlock flexing his hand and glaring down at an unconscious man in Tesco. Sherlock’s soft sleeping face as it’s tilted back onto John’s mattress from a position on the floor. Sherlock helping Teddy. Sherlock helping  _ Rachel.  _ Sherlock shouting,  _ ‘I don’t like being reminded  _ you  _ need to be reminded!’ _

John stares at this man, this selfless, selfish, considerate, careless, so very  _ human  _ man in front of him and feels something break inside his chest. 

“My god,” he murmurs in surprise. “I fucking love you.”  

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, lets out a strangled whimper in the back of his throat and then they are kissing. Their mouths slide together, urgent and growing in desperation. Sherlock brings his other hand up to grip onto John’s shirt and John holds his face between his hands. Sherlock slides his hands up to grip onto the back of John’s neck, nails digging into the sensitive skin. His breath pants into John’s mouth as the doctor pushes himself fully into the detective's body, imitating the movement with his tongue as he slips it past full lips. Their hips slot together the same moment their tongues brush and they both gasp. John flails a hand onto the hard surface of the door and by some miracle finds the handle and twists. Sherlock stumbles back as the door opens and John catches him by the hips, digging fingers in painfully as he walks him backwards into the room.  

It’s feverish and almost painful, the desperate pants and the sloppy way their mouths nip and bite. There’s too much teeth and it’s unorganised and it’s  _ perfect. _ Sherlock is gripping onto him like a lifeline and John is pushing him backwards and pulling him closer and then the detectives legs hit the side of the bed. He falls back and down and John falls with him, grunting as their teeth bash painfully with the sudden jolt. John’s hands are flying everywhere, running up and down Sherlock’s sides, squeezing fingers into hips and the skin of his waist and chest and arms and shoulders and  _ god.  _

Sherlock has snuck his own hands up under the back of John’s shirt, sliding up the skin before dragging back down with his nails. John can’t help but arch away from the sharp sensation, causing his hips to lower into the V of Sherlock’s thighs. The taller man wraps his legs around him, pulling him down and John groans at the press of erection against erection. He thrusts, can’t help it, and Sherlock’s mouth wrenches away as his head tilts back into the mattress and lets out a small cry, eyes squeezed shut. John stares at that impossibly long, pale throat and leans down to lick from the dip in the hollow all the way up to the tip his chin in one smooth motion. He can feel Sherlock trembling madly as his hands splay across the expanse of his back, and John mouths at the pulse point, exhaling at the fluttering heartbeat under his lips.

His hips are moving of their own accord now, setting a rhythm as they grind down into the man below. Sherlock’s whole body is jolting up the mattress with every thrust and he begins panting a mantra of John’s name. 

“John, John, John, John…” 

John reaches up with one hand, covering the man’s mouth to feel his name against his palm. Not satisfied with the now muffled sounds, he slides his hand down and grips Sherlock’s throat lightly. He adds slight pressure, a mere flexing of his fingers and Sherlock lets out the most beautiful moan. 

“Look at me.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear him, bottom lip captured harshly between his teeth. John adds more pressure.

“Sherlock. Look at me.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, impossibly dark as they stare wide and dazed up at him. John moves his hand up again, this time to cup his jaw, and runs his thumb across his mouth, pulling the swollen lip from between his teeth. He leans down, sucking the flesh into his mouth and tasting copper. 

“What do you want?” John pants into Sherlock’s mouth, slowing the rhythm of his hips. 

Sherlock wriggles at the loss of friction and John adds more of his weight down, stilling the movement. 

“Sherlock,” John murmurs in his ear, bites the lobe gently. “Talk to me.” 

Sherlock is silent, unnaturally so. John belatedly realises the man hasn’t said a substantial word since this whole thing began, and for some reason it’s become very important to John that he does. 

With some difficulty, John shutters his hips to a stop and places his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, straightening his arms to look at him properly. 

“Talk to me,” John says again, softer. 

Sherlock opens his mouth, his lips work silently for a moment and he closes it again, looking pained. 

John, can’t help it, leans down and kisses his left cheek. Then his right. His temples, his nose, his chin. His lips land and rest on the detectives forehead. “What is it?” He whispers into the skin. Feels it furrow beneath his mouth. He runs his lips across his brow to smooth away the lines before leaning back again, frowning slightly.

Sherlock is staring up at him, expression on his face unlike John has ever seen before. His skin is flushed, eyes dilated but focussed with a deep intensity. Mouth a tight line as if to stop words threatening to escape. In a moment of self-preservation, the brunette turns his head away as his face crumples even more. 

“No, no,” John murmurs, chasing his face with his hand and turning it back gently. “Don’t-dont do that. Hey. What's wrong?” 

Sherlock shuts his eyes tight and shakes his head. “Nothing,” he whispers. 

“Sherlock,” John tries. “Love,” Sherlock’s eyes spring open at that and John smiles a little. “You’re worrying me a tad here.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock’ lips twitch slightly at that. “Do you want to stop?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Is it too fast?”

Sherlock shakes his head again. 

John glances around for something else.

“John,” John’s eyes snap back at Sherlock’s hoarse voice. The detective takes a deep breath before letting it out slowly. “This is-“ he stops and looks down. Forces himself to look back up. “This is all I’ve ever wanted.” 

John’s heart jumps out of rhythm as he nods his head in agreement. Sees how much that admission took to make. Sherlock is worrying his lip, his eyes are flicking between John’s and the ceiling in quick succession. 

“I—I never thought you—I didn’t ever allow myself—“ Sherlock stops again, huffing in frustration at his unusual lack of coherence. 

John rolls them over as Sherlock collects his thoughts, bringing them both onto their sides, the taller man’s legs still wrapped securely around his waist. 

Sherlock looks back with some determination. Begins again. “I find myself caring an awful lot on how you think of me,” he confesses quietly. “It isn’t something I’ve ever truly experienced since I was a child. An outcome born from sibling competitiveness and absent parents I presume. I rather resented it at first. But then, it’s just become part of...this.” Sherlock gestures vaguely between them. 

John nods a bit in understanding, thinking he knows where this is going. “The list…”

Sherlock pulls a face. “I thought nothing of it at first, found it amusing, even. But as it grew I found—I’m not stupid, I know the type of man I am. I am...difficult. No, let me finish. I began to wish I could be the type of person in your life where you wouldn’t need a visual reminder that I was…” Sherlock trails off, looking around for the right word. 

“Nice?” 

Sherlock gives him a vague look of disgust. “If you like.” 

John chuckles a bit. “I don’t.” At Sherlock’s look of confusion he elaborates, “I don’t need a reminder. My god, Sherlock, I  _ know  _ you. I could never forget anything about you. Couldn’t if I tried. The best and the worst, the insane and the sane, the kind and the horribly rude parts that make you,  _ you.”  _ Sherlock blinks at him. “I made that list ultimately, and really rather simply, because it made me smile. Regardless of circumstance. And yes, I admit, it has saved you from a bollocking a couple of times.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes but huffs a laugh at that. 

John’s grin dimmers after a moment and he leans forward to kiss Sherlock’s eyebrow. “I’m sorry if I-“ 

“Ugh, shut up."

John grins again. Rests their foreheads together. “I don’t want you to change,” he states and feels Sherlock shift uncomfortably, realises he’s probably hit the nail on the head. “Ever. I adore you,” he whispers. 

Sherlock pulls back, eyes a bit bright and crowds into him, sighing contently as he presses his mouth back to Johns. “Enough talking now,” he demands before pressing his lips more forcefully. 

John chuckles into his mouth, rolling back upwards to hover over the slim body once more. 

There’s more things that John could say, could tell Sherlock how he looks when he’s sat at the kitchen table at precisely twelve pm when the sun streams through the window and lights up his pale skin and turns his hair copper around the edges like a halo. How that makes John ache to touch him, how he’s wanted to for so long. He could say how he feels when Sherlock starts spilling deductions from his mouth at crime scenes, never taking a breath and filling up the space around them. How everyone looks at Sherlock in silent awe and John feels smug and proud that he gets to go home with that brilliant man at the end of the day. How he’s sometimes so baffled Sherlock even exists, the utter ridiculousness of him, how he soars too high above everyone else, everyone John has ever met. How John feels complete, whole, when they’re together and how all he can think about when they’re apart is him. Sherlock. Always.  How Sherlock looks young when he feels vulnerable, and John is certain Sherlock never realises how often that actually is. How it makes John wish he knew Sherlock when he was young. Makes him want to pick him up and carry him away from everything that makes Sherlock look like that. He wants to tell him his lip twitches on the left side when he’s trying not to laugh. How his nose scrunches up boyishly when he gives in to the temptation. How John always has the urge to slot his fingers in the slight dimples on his cheeks when he smiles.  How Sherlock has a smile reserved for John alone and it’s small and lopsided and sincere and it makes his eyes light up as if someone has shone a torch on them, turning the pale blue to silver and reflective and if John is close enough he can see his face smiling back in the surface. How that smile makes John want to burst, want shout out like a spoilt child to everyone that it’s  _ his  _ smile and no one else's and they will never see it the way he does and has Sherlock ever known that? That he smiles like that? 

John could say a great many things, but he can’t, not now, because Sherlock is arching his hips up deliciously to create the friction from moments before and tugging John’s jumper up over his head. 

It takes Sherlock approximately thirty seconds to undo John’s shirt buttons and push the garment off his shoulders. Then he stops and stares, pushes John back slightly so he is sat straddling his lap and runs his hands down the smooth chest with tentative fingers. His lips move silently with words only he can hear, eyes flicking rapidly, reading the stories of every scar and blemish. John lets him, unsurprised when the pale eyes stop and rest on the scar adorning his shoulder. Sherlock gives him a quick peek, asking permission and John huffs a quiet laugh.

“Go on.”

Sherlock all but preens and sits up abruptly, hands flying to the knot of skin but the touch in gentle. Fingertips skim and search the old wound, featherlight brushes as he maps out the area. Moves his left hand to explore John’s shoulder blade.

“There was no exit wound,” John murmurs quietly, watching him fondly. 

Sherlock look annoyed with himself for a second, nodding and carries on prodding softly. After a moment, he leans inward and presses his lips to the damaged skin and John lets out a small sigh. 

“Exquisit,” Sherlock whispers into his chest, soft brush of tongue in a delicate lick. 

Enjoying the attention but impatient to touch, John gently pushes Sherlock’s hands away and starts working open the buttons of his crisp white shirt. 

Each button opened reveals another patch of porcelain skin and once the soft material is discarded onto the floor, John pushes Sherlock back down onto his back to admire the narrow waist and smooth contours of his chest and stomach, too thin but with a padding of muscle created by sprints down alleyways. His arms are roped with strength, John has seen is boxing certificates, has seen him take down criminals with those delicate fists. The masculine frame gives John a jolt of desire, one which is rare and usually ignored these days. Hasn’t been with a man for years, didn’t ever think he would try it again. But Sherlock is an exception, always an exception, to every rule of nature. A mixture of delicate beauty and hard lines, large hands but thin wrists, plump lips but angular jaw. Sharp tongue but soft smiles. A walking talking contradiction.

“Christ _ ,  _ you’re beautiful.”

And there it is, that lopsided  _ John  _ smile and John is hurriedly leaning down to feel it against his lips. A jolt surges through him as Sherlock licks at the seam of his mouth, parting John's lips expertly and brushing hot tongues together, and then the desperation is back. 

Hands fumble to belt buckles and zippers, trousers and pants are impatiently pushed down and kicked away. There’s a brief moment of breathless chuckles into mouths and rolling bodies when they realise both still have their shoes on, but that’s quickly amended. 

John is settling back down between Sherlock’s thighs and the first brush of erection against erection is electric, mimicking gasps fill the air between them. John pushes forward once, twice and Sherlock whimpers and isn't that just  _ incredible _ . 

Pale eyes are wide and fixated on John, the pupils large and all-seeing. The scrutiny makes John’s cock twitch where it should be unnerving. John reaches down, running a palm over Sherlock’s hardened flesh and the man below him lets out a small cry, squeezing shut those windows of observation.

“No, no, open your eyes,” John pants, rubbing his hand up then back down with agonising slowness. “I want to see you.”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate this time, opens his eyes again and that scrutiny is back. Long fingers reach out to grab at John’s nape, pulling him down flush against his body.

“John, John,” he breathes raggedly into his ear. “Please--I want--I  _ need-- _ ”

The position cages John’s hand into stillness and he nuzzles at the line of Sherlock’s jaw. Scrapes teeth. “What? Anything you want, anything.”

“Fuck me, please.” It’s almost inaudible, a mere breath against his ear. The words setting off fireworks all over John’s body.

“ _Oh_ _my_ _god."_

The rare profanity, the plea, the way Sherlock’s voice is pitched low and intimate, makes John slide his hand out from between their bodies, fist into inky curls. Hips rut uncoordinatedly into the body beneath him. 

Sherlock is making little  _ ‘Ah’  _ noises and pushing up to meet every trust, fingers flexing. “ _ John, please--” _

John slides his hands down to grasp the pits of Sherlock’s knees, pushes his legs up and they immediately wrap around his waist.

“Do you have--”

“Top drawer."

John takes a second to lean over, fumbling in the bedside cabinet before grasping a bottle of lube. 

“Fuck, condoms?”

Sherlock groans impatiently. “We don’t need it.”

“Sherlock--”

“John, I haven't had sex in over ten years nor touched a needle in nearly two. I’ve been tested since, I am clean. You get tested every month and you’re clean. We don’t need it,” Sherlock says in a rush, tugging at John’s arm.

John gives him a suspicious look. “How do you know I’m clean?”

Sherlock gives him an insulted look as if to say ‘ _ do you know me?’ _

John rolls his eyes. “Stupid question, really.” Drops the subject. He settles back between Sherlock’s legs, kneeling. Hooks Sherlock’s legs more securely around his waist, rests his palms on the creamy skin of his thighs. Takes a second to pause and just look at the man under him. Spread out and flushed, the glossy head of his cock, the visible evidence of his want and desire for John and he can hardly believe it, even now after everything. Hands slide down the thighs, rest at boney hips. Sherlock squirms a bit, impatient. 

“Are you sure?” John asks, forcing his hands to still their petting with a willpower he didn’t know he possessed and looks into Sherlock’s eyes.

The younger man glares up at him. “For god’s sake John, when have you ever known me to do anything I didn’t want to do?”

John chuckles. “Fair point.” He uncaps the bottle of lube and runs some down onto his fingers before leaning down to press a kiss against Sherlock’s hip. The lithe body twitches under his lips as he slides a finger down and rubs it against Sherlock’s entrance. Takes a deep breath.

“For god’s sake, tell me if I hurt you.” 

“Uh huh,” comes the breathless reply and John slips a finger in.  _ God.  _ Sherlock immediately arches up with a deep inhale and John looks up to assess his face.

“Okay?”

Sherlock nods rapidly, hands coming to rest on John’s scalp. John kisses and licks at the crease where his groin meets thigh as Sherlock relaxes once more. He pushes the digit in more, slowly, and Sherlock lets out a low groan, head thrown back and a flush rising high on his cheekbones.  _ Stunning.  _

John shakes his head at the sight. Shouldn’t be fair, looking like that. “If you could see yourself,” John murmurs, pulling his finger almost all the way out and pushing back in with a little more force. 

Sherlock pants above him as John works him open, adding another finger when the slide is easier. The thighs bracketing John’s head are trembling, full lips parted to let out quick short little gasps. John could do this for hours, he thinks, watch Sherlock being taken apart by this fingers alone, making him come that way.

Before long, John is scissoring his fingers inside him, fucking that svede body with his hands. He watches Sherlock’s chest rise and fall with each thrust, and leans down to lick a slow stripe up the long cock next to his face. 

Sherlock’s fingers tighten in his hair. “ _ Fuck. _ ”

John’s own neglected erection is aching, and the small sounds Sherlock is making isn’t helping. Unable to wait any longer, desperate to be inside the man, to feel him around him, John abruptly pulls his fingers away and sits up. 

Sherlock’s full attention is immediately on him, and he watches with a half-lidded look of wonder as John bites his lip as he coats his erection with the lube. Gives a self-indulgent tug. Lines himself up, meets Sherlock’s gaze and slowly pushes forward. His fingers dig hard into the boney hips hard enough to bruise. Lets out a shaky breath.

“Oh,” the soft exclamation falls from Sherlock lips, his eyes wide and unblinking and John keeps pressing in. John groans at the slick heat, forces himself not to  _ thrusttakefaster. _ Their thighs meet and John pauses as he waits for Sherlock to get accustomed to the feel of him. Inside him. Inside Sherlock. He’s  _ inside Sherlock.  _ John’s thighs tremble. Sherlock grips onto his forearms like a vice. He’s thought about this, of course he has, didn’t ever expect it to feel this good. John has been inside a great many people but it’s never quite felt like this before. A crushing feeling is in his chest, makes it hard to breathe. Feels like love. He looks down at where their bodies join together. He’s never felt so whole. Scary to think he could have never had this. Terrifying. Why did they wait?

He looks back up at Sherlock. He’s transcending, eclipses every other thought in John’s head. Always has done, from the moment they met. 

After a moment, Sherlock wiggles experimentally and they both moan. “Move,” Sherlock demands in a whisper. 

John pulls out slightly, slides gently back in. “ _ Christ.  _ Sherlock.” He does it again, thrusting with a little more force. 

As John starts a slow pace, he leans down to capture the cupid bow lips and Sherlock’s hands slide into his hair. John snaps his hips forward and the fingers tighten considerably. Sherlock groans into his mouth.

“Do that again.” 

John does. Picks up his pace. Sherlock’s body jerks up with every thrust, mouths along John’s throat. John angles his hips a bit and the next hard thrust makes Sherlock cry out, hands scrabbling desperately across John’s shoulders. 

John plants his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, breathing in the scent of fresh sweat and gingerlily. He bites down a bit at the delicate flesh, licks away the sting, does it again when Sherlocks nails dig painfully into his back. 

Suddenly, Sherlock pushes at his shoulders, causing John to sit up. He frowns in confusion and worry, painfully stills his hips, but Sherlock is following him without hesitation. Crowds into John, pushing him fully away until John has no choice but to move his legs from under himself to lay them flat against the mattress.

“Sherlock--” John begins at ask but Sherlock is climbing on top of him, straddling his lap on his knees. Grabs John’s cock at the base and makes sure John is looking at him as he sinks himself down onto it.

“ _ Fucking hell, _ ” John groans.

Once fully seated, Sherlock wraps his legs around him and John quickly plants his feet on the mattress behind Sherlock’s body, knees drawn up to support his weight. He grips onto Sherlock’s hips as the the taller man presses himself fully against him, long arms wrapped securely around his shoulders and face buried in his neck. Sherlock moves, bouncing himself up and down and John has to slide his hand up Sherlock’s back to maintain the position. The other reaches down to grasp at his arse cheek. 

It’s a lewd imitation of the embrace from the sofa the night before and John’s breath hitches at the thought of Sherlock thinking about doing  _ this  _ then. Maybe he went into his room that night and fantasised about it, imagined himself riding John with gasped breathes and harsh grips. Touching himself with eyes closed and lips between teeth. John’s name in his throat as he comes into the darkness. 

The image causes John’s hand to slide up and grip roughly onto the back of Sherlock’s neck, leans Sherlock back slightly so he can drive his hips up in a punishing pace. Sherlock is panting wetly into his neck, teeth grazing with every other thrust and his arms are tightening almost suffocatingly. It’s too hot, their bodies are moulding into one. It’s spectacular. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” John grunts, feeling Sherlock begin tighten around him as the man lets out a desperate moan.

“John--John--I’m--”

“Come on,” John pants into his ear. “Come on.”

Sherlock’s breath hitches, his body spasms and shakes, lets out a cry and freezes, pulsing around him and nails piercing the skin of John’s back.

John didn’t even have to touch him. The thought makes John squeeze his eyes shut and he thrusts up once, twice, and his orgasm crashes through him like a meteorite. A string of profanity escapes his lips and he sees stars popping in and out of existence behind his eyelids. They fizzle and gradually disappear as the waves subside and he’s left panting against Sherlock’s shoulder, arms pinning the man to him as Sherlock’s chest heaves. 

They sit clinging to each other for many moments, catching their breath. Entwined like vines on a garden fence.  

Soon, muscles begin to ache and gravity naturally calls to them and they fall sideways, still wrapped tightly together. After a moment, John slowly eases himself out of Sherlock’s body with an over-sensitive shudder, all but drags the long limbs up the bed so they can rest facing each other, heads on pillows. Simply stare at each other as their breathing slows to languid as the sweat cools on their bodies.

When Sherlock shivers, John reaches down and pulls the duvet up over them. Sherlock shoves John onto his back with demanding hands before settling against his chest, practically laying on top of him. Grabs John’s wrists and pulls his arms around his back before settling down and resting his palms on the broad chest. John smiles into damp curly hair at the display, letting himself be manhandled. 

“Brat.” 

“Mm,” comes the sleepy reply. Fingers trace up and down John’s ribs lazily.

“Can I add this to the list?” John asks, smirking. The fingers pinch at his soft flesh and John jerks away with a laugh.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’ll call it; The Best Sex Of My Life,” John grins.

Sherlock raises his head to look up at him. “Was it really?”

John gives him a look of disbelief. “Are you kidding?”

There’s that lopsided smile again, accompanied by lowered lashes. Sherlock looks up again with an exaggerated unimpressed look. “I don’t know, but I hope you were.”

“I was,” John chuckles again, kisses him softly. Feels Sherlock smile into the kiss. 

Sherlock rests his head back against his chest. John feels more content than he can ever remember, exactly where he wants to be. If someone gave him tickets to the bahamas right now he would turn them down.

He tightens his arms around Sherlock, eyes drifting closed.

“I adore you too,” comes a sleepy declaration. John opens his eyes, kisses the forehead under his chin.

“I know,” he replies, truthfully. 

Nothing else is said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I stated earlier, there will be an epilogue. I'm also working on another fic as we speak that I hope to start uploading soon-Hope to see some of you there if it floats your boat!


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I finally finished this.
> 
> Short and sweet. Just like John.
> 
> <3

“You seem happy.”

It’s a muttered observation from Greg, low enough to not be overheard as it’s a rather inappropriate thing to say, considering the dead body three feet away and the crying husband (now widow) being lead into a police car.  

John can’t tear his eyes away from the crouching form of Sherlock, who is inspecting a broken vase on the floor on the other side of the room. He can feel a stupid smile on his face, doesn’t even try and stop it.

“I am.”

Greg flicks his eyes between John and Sherlock, throws the former a knowing smirk and clears his throat.

“I just came into some money,” he grins before wandering over to Anderson with a triumphant air.

* * *

“You seem happy, dear.”

John almost doesn’t catch the murmur of Mrs Hudson as she passes Sherlock a cup of tea. John pretends he didn’t hear it, continues to wash up plates in the sink.

“I am.”

John smiles down at the soapy water beneath him, Sherlock’s matter-of-fact answer drifting clearly over to him.

John glances over his shoulder, spies Mrs Hudson ruffling curly hair with a fond look and Sherlock doesn’t even try to pat her hands away.

 _He does,_ John thinks. _He does look happy._

* * *

 “You look happy.”

Teddy grins over his pint at John, eye’s sparkling. John looks up from his phone screen, mid-way through tapping out a text stating the name of the pub they are currently sitting in.

“I am happy,” John smiles over at him, types a quick _‘Let Molly go home, Sherlock. Teddy’s bought you a pint.’_

“Glad you’ve sorting yourselves out,” Teddy says with a nod, eyes drifting down to the watch on his wrist.

“Me too.”

John’s phone pings and he glances down at it.

_‘Tell him to get another one. SH’_

John frowns in confusion, then darts his head up when a breeze of cold air ruffles his hair from the opening door.

A little flutter of butterflies in his stomach, an almost daily occurrence, John wonders if there will ever come a day where the sight of Sherlock doesn’t result in it.

Sherlock spots him immediately, eye’s drawn to him like a moth to a bulb.

_Conductor of light._

Sherlock smiles, lopsided, and holds open the door as Molly stumbles in after him. He leads her over to their table and Teddy looks up.

“Teddy, this is Molly Hooper. Molly, Teddy Knowles,” Sherlock introduces, leaving her standing as he takes a seat next to John.

John slides his fingers between Sherlock’s, watching with a grin as Teddy stares up at Molly with wide eyes. A small smile gradually lights up his face and Molly blushes, bites her lip. Smiles back.

* * *

 “You seem…happy.”

Mycroft’s drawl is heavily layered; flippant, mocking, curious, reluctant, pleased. John doesn’t know how he can convey so much in one carefully worded sentence.  

Sherlock spins round from the window, gives his brother a hooded look.    

“That’s because I am,” Sherlock shrugs, a hint of triumph in his tone. Like happiness is a competition.

Although, with these two, it probably is.

John sips his tea and continues to read the paper, effortlessly ignoring the silent conversation happening in front of him.

Ten minutes later, when Sherlock has begun to slowly reach for his violin in warning, Mycroft picks up his umbrella and heads for the door.

And as he passes John’s chair, he does something John has never experienced before. He pats John on the shoulder.

* * *

 John can’t stop looking at Sherlock, he never stops looking at him. Anywhere, everywhere, at any moment he feels the urge to point it out, he won’t stop himself from indulging.

“You look beautiful.”

“God, you look incredible.”

“You look _perfect_.”

“You look, frankly, adorable right now.”

“You look- _fuck-_ you look-”

“You look pale, come here so I can feel your forehead.”

“ _Look at you_.”

“Eat, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“You look gorgeous tonight, love.”

“Smile, you look angry. No, not _that_ smile.”

“I don’t like how he’s looking at you. No, I’m not jealous.”

“Yes, you look very handsome, now let’s go or we’ll be late.”

“Look at us. We look happy.”

 

John doesn’t delete the list, but he doesn’t add anything else to it, either. Doesn’t need to, he can remember with sparkling clarity every moment he and Sherlock share together.

He does, however, sometimes goes back to it for a nostalgic read-through.

For no reason other than it makes him smile.


End file.
